BIRDS 
FOUNTAIN 

BETTINA  VON  HUTTEN 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 


UNIT.  OP  CAUF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 


BY 

BETTINA  VON  HUTTEN 


AUTHOR  OF 
"MARIA,"  "SHARROW,"  "PAM,"  ETC. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  1915 


COPYBIGHT,    1915,    BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


2130426 


PART   I 


THE  beautiful  Mrs.  Cloudesley  Dorset  was  having 
her  afternoon  rest. 

This  rite  was  performed  between  the  hours 
of  three  and  five,  and  the  members  of  the  household 
knew  that  any  interruption  occasioned  by  less  than 
a  sudden  death,  or  a  fire,  would  be  regarded — and 
punished — almost  as  a  sacrilege. 

The  temple  dedicated  to  the  cult  of  her  beauty  that 
may  almost  be  described  as  the  lady's  religion  was 
called  the  Gray  Room. 

It  was  a  small  room  at  the  back  of  the  house  on  the 
third  floor,  and  over  it  was  an  empty  one,  perfect 
quiet  being  thus  insured  to  it.  The  fact  that  keeping 
the  overhead  room  empty  necessitated  the  sleeping 
together,  in  a  place  scarcely  larger  than  a  cupboard, 
of  Annie  Archbold,  head  parlormaid,  and  Cissy  Kelly, 
head  housemaid,  had  not  troubled  the  lady  whose  hus- 
band paid  these  hirelings  their  wages. 

She  had  merely  thought  it  lucky  that  the  hirelings 
were  friends,  so  that  they  presumably  didn't  mind. 

The  Gray  Room  had  a  large  window  of  dove-colored 


glass,  the  thick  curtain  to  which,  hung  from  a  box- 
shaped  frame  to  insure  the  entrance  of  fresh  air,  was 
of  dull  black  silk. 

The  unpolished  ebony  bed,  which  stood  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  its  head  towards  the  window,  was  also 
hung  with  black  silk  curtains  so  draped  on  movable 
ebony  arms  that  they  could  be  arranged  in  many  ways, 
according  to  its  inmate's  wish. 

The  carpet  was  gray,  as  thick,  as  soft  to  the  foot 
as  moss  in  a  damp  woodland  place,  and  the  fireplace 
was  of  plain  gray  marble. 

There  was  in  the  quiet  room  no  clock,  no  books,  and 
only  one  table;  there  were  no  pictures,  no  mirrors,  no 
flowers. 

On  the  table  was  spread,  over  the  gray  velvet  cover, 
a  white  linen  cloth,  and  on  it  stood  a  business-like  array 
of  fat  jars  and  bottles,  brushes,  and  motley  folded 
cloths  of  various  kinds. 

There  were  also  three  glass  basins  of  various  sizes, 
and  an  electric  battery. 

On  either  side  of  the  bed  stood  a  low,  armless  chair 
with  a  black  upholstered  seat  and  back. 

The  place  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  temple.  It  was 
also  a  workshop. 

Mrs.  Dorset  lay  on  her  right  side,  her  long  reddish 
hair,  which  had  had  its  brushing,  loosely  plaited.  She 
had  only  one  pillow,  and  her  nightgown  was  of  white 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

crepe-de-chine  and  quite  simple.  Its  long  sleeves  were 
unusual  in  that  they  were  buttoned  from  the  wrist 
to  the  shoulders  with  smooth,  flat  buttons. 

Her  left  hand,  as  she  lay  with  a  pad  of  wet  cotton- 
wool over  her  eyes,  rested  on  a  little  pillow  on  the  knees 
of  Clementine. 

Clementine  wore  a  loose  gray  cashmere  gown  and 
over  it  an  unstarched  linen  pinafore. 

Beside  her  on  a  low  stool  was  arranged  all  that  was 
necessary  for  her  work  of  manicuring  her  mistress. 
The  silence  in  the  room  was  so  intense  as  to  seem  a 
tangible  thing ;  it  was  like  a  veil,  or  a  thick  soft  fabric. 

The  little  click  of  the  scissors  or  her  other  instru- 
ments, sounded  to  the  noiselessly  busy  woman  like 
loud  bangs,  and  as  one  occurred  she  glanced  at  her 
mistress's  beautiful  mouth  to  see  if  the  sound  had  dis- 
turbed her.  Mrs.  Dorset  did  not  move;  she  was  an 
artist  in  resting,  and  as  she  lay  there  her  mind  was 
as  nearly  a  blank  as  a  waking  mind  can  be. 

She  was  dining  out  that  night,  so  her  afternoon 
drive  should  be  a  solitary  one.  She  was  going  to  a 
ball,  and  her  frock,  a  masterpiece  of  Worths'  arrived 
from  Paris  that  morning,  was  perfection.  Archie  Hood 
was  to  be  at  the  ball. 

The  knowledge  of  these  things  lay  at  the  back  of 
her  brain,  but  her  brain  was  not  busy  with  them;  her 
brain,  as  well  as  her  body,  was  resting. 

5 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Clementine  rose,  restored  the  manicure  things  to 
their  place  amongst  the  bottles  on  the  table,  and  open- 
ing a  masked  door,  disappeared  for  a  moment.  When 
she  came  back,  brushing  her  newly  washed  hands  lightly 
together,  she  filled  one  of  the  flat  little  glass  basins 
with  a  sweet-smelling  amber-colored  oil,  and  began  a 
curious,  gentle,  soothing  massage. 

Mrs.  Dorset  was  a  very  small,  very  slight  woman 
with  beautiful  limbs  best  described  as  gracile.  Her 
little  pink  feet  were  exquisite,  but  no  bigger  than  those 
of  an  average  child  of  ten.  When  the  maid  unbuttoned 
the  nightgown  sleeves,  leaving  them  folded  back  like 
wings,  the  little  lady  looked  like  an  exquisite  statuette. 
Clementine,  a  broad,  big-boned  Norman,  with  flat  round 
nostrils  and  a  mustache,  worked  quietly  on,  her  sooth- 
ing, oily,  fragrant  hands  as  delicate  as  butterflies. 
She  was,  and  with  reason,  proud  of  her  touch,  much 
as  a  musician  may  be  proud  of  his.  Presently  she 
rose  quietly  and  seated  herself  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bed. 

Without  a  word  Mrs.  Dorset  changed  her  position 
slightly  and  again  lay  quiet,  half  asleep  under  the 
blandishment  of  those  large  hands. 

Clementine  wore  a  watch,  and  when  an  hour  had 
passed  she  rose,  washed  her  hands  once  more,  and 
changed  the  bandage  on  her  mistress's  eyes  for  a  cool, 
newly  soaked  one. 

6 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

The  large  full  eyelids  with  their  very  long  fair  lashes 
did  not  flutter  as  they  were  uncovered;  the  beautiful 
Mrs.  Dorset  was  nearly  asleep. 

Clementine  watched  her  for  a  moment  as  she  moist- 
ened her  hands  afresh,  this  time  with  a  mixture  of 
spirits  of  wine  and  rose  scent,  and  her  gaunt  face  was 
very  tender. 

Then,  again  sitting  down,  she  began  the  last  step 
of  putting  her  charge  to  sleep. 

She  took  a  little  rosy  foot  on  her  lap  and  stroked 
it,  slowly  and  lightly,  two  of  her  great  fingers  almost 
covering  it  as  she  did  so.  Round  the  arch,  under 
the  sole,  over  the  pink  toes,  in  a  quiet  arabesque  of 
hypnotic  movement.  Five  minutes  passed,  and  ten,  and 
slower  and  slower  went  the  fingers.  Clementine's  own 
eyes  closed  once  or  twice,  so  quiet  was  the  room,  so 
drowsy  the  motion  of  her  own  hand. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  and  then  she  rose  and  disap- 
peared as  silently  as  a  melting  snow  wreath.  The 
beautiful  Mrs.  Dorset  was  asleep. 


II 


MAJOR  MARCHINGTON  thoughtfully  stroked 
his  out-of-date  gray  mustache. 

"What'd  you  say  her  name  is?"  he  asked. 

Lady  Barbara  Questingham  repeated  the  name. 

"Mrs.  Dorset.  Her  husband  is  a  son  of  old  Charles 
Frederick  Dorset,  the  V.C." 

"Bless  my  soul!     Not  Cloudesley  Dorset?" 

"Cloudesley  Dorset.    Why,  do  you  know  him?" 

The  old  lady  looked  eagerly  at  her  companion. 

"Known  him  ever  since  he  was  six  years  old,  though 
I  haven't  seen  him  twenty  times  in  as  many  years. 
When  he  was  sent  home  from  India  at  that  age,  I  was 
coming  back  on  leave  to  be  married." 

"Dear  me,  I  never  knew  you  had  been  married,  Major 
Marchington." 

"I  haven't — much.  However — this  fellow,  then  in 
bare  legs  and  sailor-suits,  was  on  board."  After  a 
pause  he  added,  "What's  he  like  now?" 

Lady  Barbara  hesitated.  "Large — dull — and  very 
rich." 

"A  good  fellow?" 

8 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"I  don't  know — I  rarely  see  him.  He's  a  silent,  heavy 
creature.  Not  at  all  in  my  line — or  yours." 

"Ha.     She  is  very  beautiful." 

"Isn't  she?" 

"Brains?" 

Lady  Barbara  laughed.  "Oh,  dear,  no.  Absolutely 
none.  I  believe  she  pretends  to  read  philosophy  and 
poetry — you  know  the  type." 

The  two  old  people  were  silent  for  a  while  in  their 
corner  of  a  duchess's  ballroom,  where  they  were  re- 
newing a  friendly  tie  broken  ten  years  before  when 
the  Major  had  gone  to  China  and  India.  He  had  been 
back  twice,  but  on  one  occasion  had  stayed  only  a  fort- 
night and  then  moved  on  to  America,  and  Lady  Bar- 
bara had  missed  him  altogether  on  his  other  visit  home, 
she  being  very  ill  at  the  time. 

So  there  was  much  to  be  explained,  many  broken 
threads  to  be  knotted,  a  great  deal  of  stale  and  fresh 
gossip  to  be  set  forth  for  each  other's  delectation.  They 
were  having  a  pleasant  evening,  for  although  they  had 
never  got  to  the  Christian  name  stage  of  intimacy  they 
had  always  had  much  in  common.  They  were  both 
gifted  gossips,  not  unamiable  spyers  out  of  other  peo- 
ple's weaknesses  and  sins,  and  they  were  bound  by  the 
same  code  as  to  what,  in  the  pursuit  of  such  amuse- 
ment, was  permissible. 

Also  they  both  liked  good  food  and  plenty  of  it, 

9 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

and  had  no  old-fashioned  ideas  on  the  subject  of  early 
to  bed  and  early  to  rise. 

They  liked  late,  very  late,  breakfasts,  slow,  elaborate 
hot  luncheons,  drowsy  afternoons  in  drawing-rooms, 
and  much  rich  food  at  night. 

They  were  delighted  to  be  together. 

After  his  companion's  last  remark  the  old  man  sat 
in  silence  for  a  moment. 

The  beautiful  Mrs.  Dorset,  as  fresh  after  her  long 
rest  as  a  girl  of  eighteen,  was  waltzing. 

She  wore  green,  the  green  of  the  youngest  and 
tenderest  of  lily-of-the-valley  leaves,  and  round  her 
delicate,  long  throat  hung  a  rope  of  pearls. 

She  danced  like  an  angel,  her  tiny  green  satin 
feet  skimming  over  the  shining  floor  like  gay  little 
birds. 

"It  is  not  mere  prettiness,"  the  Major  declared  at 
last.  "It  is  great  beauty  on  a  very  small  scale." 

"It  is." 

"And,  rare  as  great  beauty  is,"  pursued  the  old 
man,  "there  is  an  even  more  unusual  thing  about  her. 
She  really  loves  dancing." 

"All  pretty  women  love  dancing — there's  an  element 
of  danger  about  it  that  they  enjoy  even  when  they 
don't  recognize  it " 

"Dear  Lady  Barbara,  all  pretty  women  do  not  love 
dancing,  nor  all  young  men,  either !  Look  at  the  faces 

10 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

of  these  people  as  they  pass  us.  Nine  out  of  ten 
are  busy  doing  their  best.  That  isn't  loving  a  thing! 
And  many  of  them  are  suffering  from  the  heart,  or  the 
exercise,  or  tight  shoes,  or — indigestion 

The  old  lady  laughed,  her  soft  fat  neck,  as  thickly 
powdered  as  a  new-baked  cake,  shaking  in  loose  little 
billows. 

"What  a  horrid  thought — indigestion  at  a  duchess's 
dance?" 

"Horrid  but  true.  I  know.  I  myself  was  once  a 
dancing  man,  but  in  my  secret  soul  I  loathed  it.  The 
only  thing  that  made  it  worth  while  was,  saving  your 
presence,  the  privilege  it  conferred  of  putting  my  arm 
about  pretty  waists  and  gazing  into  pretty  eyes  at 
a  closer  range  than  was  usually  allowed.  However, 
this  little  beauty,  as  I  said,  loves  dancing  for  dancing's 
sake.  Look  at  her!" 

As  he  spoke  Mrs.  Dorset  approached  them,  waltzing 
with  a  tall,  dark,  broad-shouldered  man  with  narrow 
hips  and  thin  feet. 

He  danced  as  well  as  she,  and  they  looked  supremely 
happy. 

Her  close-coiffed  head,  the  not  too  elaborately  waved 
hair  packed  neatly  into  a  small  coil  and  bound  with 
a  wreath  of  very  delicate  green  leaves — this  was  before 
the  days  when  ladies  wore  surgical  bandages  by  way 
of  head-dress — had  fallen  back  a  little.  Her  eyes  were 

11 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

half-closed,  and  her  clean-cut  bright  pink  mouth  curved 
in  a  faint  smile. 

"By  Gad,  how  well  they  dance  together,"  exclaimed 
the  old  Major. 

"They  ought  to,"  was  Lady  Barbara's  dry  rejoinder. 

He  glanced  sharply  at  her.     "Why?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  the  powdered  skin  cur- 
dling at  the  movement. 

"It's  Archie  Hood." 

The  waltz  ended,  and  a  hubbub  of  voices  made  talk- 
ing a  more  difficult  matter,  but  Marchington  insisted 
on  an  answer. 

"Well — Archie  Hood — who  is  he,  and  what  do  you 
mean?" 

Lady  Barbara  rose.  "It  is  supper  time,  my  dear 
friend,  and  I  am  ravenous.  Convey  me  to  the  costly 
viands." 

He  conveyed  her,  and  when  she  was  pleasantly  busy 
with  the  costly  viands  he  went  back  to  the  subject. 

"Now  tell  me  about  Archie  Hood.  Who  is  he — and 
what?" 

"I  believe  you  have  lost  your  heart  to  her !" 

"I  have.  Shall  I,  such  being  the  case,  find  it  incum- 
bent on  me  to  shoot  Archie  Hood?" 

She  ruminated  with  mock  solemnity,  her  wrinkled  old 
eyelids,  like  those  of  a  sleepy  crocodile,  crumpling  curi- 
ously as  she  looked  at  him. 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"I  shouldn't  think,"  she  declared  at  last,  "that  it 
would  be  necessary  to  shoot  him,  but " 

"But " 

"You  might  give  him — a  piece  of  your  mind  for  the 
way  he  is  behaving  about  her." 

"I  see.     It's  as  bad  as  that,  then?" 

"Oh,  obviously.  If  you  hadn't  been  gallivanting  in 
the  effete  Orient  you'd  have  seen  it  long  ago.  Been 
going  on  for  months.  Odd  you've  never  seen  her 
before." 

"I  have  once  or  twice — at  the  opera,  and  at  some 
picture  show,  but  I  didn't  know  who  she  was.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  I'd  got  it  into  my  head  that  she  was  one 
of  Lady  Jerningham's  girls." 

Lady  Barbara  burst  out  laughing.  "I  wish  Ursula 
Jerningham  could  hear  you  say  that!  Why,  my  dear 
man,  Amy  Dorset  is  thirty-five  years  old !" 

The  old  man  started.    "Impossible !" 

"I  know  it's  impossible,  but  it's  true." 

"But  she  looks  twenty." 

"Not  to  the  female  eye.  To  that  penetrating  organ 
she  looks  at  her  worst,  thirty,  and  at  her  best,  like 
tonight,  five  and  twenty." 

"Thirty-five,"  murmured  the  old  man,  "thirty-five!" 

"Aye.     Isn't  she  amazing?" 

"She  is  indeed.     Who  was  she?" 

"Here's  another  surprise  for  you,  my  poor  Romeo. 

13 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

She  was — nobody.  Absolutely  nobody!  I  believe  her 
father  was  a  solicitor  or  doctor  or  something  somewhere 
in  Gloucestershire.  If  you  can  so  far  recover  yourself, 
I  wish  you'd  give  me  some  more  champagne." 

Major  Marchington  filled  both  their  glasses  and 
emptied  his  at  a  draft. 

"I  see.     And  now  tell  me  about  Hood." 

"Oh,  he's  all  right.  He's  one  of  the  Bagworthy 
Hoods,  a  cousin  or  something.  He  is  mad  about  this 
little  creature.  Aha,"  she  added  with  much  satisfac- 
tion, "there  they  are." 

Mrs.  Dorset  and  Captain  Hood  had  threaded  their 
way  through  the  crowd  of  tables  and  sat  down  at  one 
nearby.  Major  Marchington  moved  his  chair  slightly 
so  that  he  could  see  them.  In  the  presence  of  great 
beauty  or  charm  this  old  gentleman  felt  as  a  crippled 
man  must  feel  when  looking  on  at  a  game  in  which  he 
himself  once  excelled. 

Captain  Hood  was  making  love  to  the  lady  opposite 
him — discreetly,  but,  to  the  initiated,  unmistakably 
making  love. 

And  she,  her  beautifully  shaped  little  head  turned 
away,  her  eyes  absently  scanning  the  people  near 
her,  was,  the  old  man  perceived,  listening  with  pleas- 
ure. 

"Her  hair  is  dyed,  you  know,"  said  Lady  Barbara, 
pleasantly,  "and  her  lashes  are  really  quite  fair." 

14 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Marchington  laughed,  not  quite  so  pleasantly. 

"I    suppose    a    former    maid    of    hers    told    your 

maid " 

"Yes,"  returned  the  old  woman,  stoutly,  "she  did." 


ni 


YOU  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean,"  Captain 
Hood  was  saying,  his  dark  eyes  fixed  on  the 
carefully  controlled  face  of  his  companion. 

She  laughed.  "Everybody  on  earth  means  a  given 
thing  in  given  circumstances,"  she  answered  with  a  little 
air  of  saying  something  clever. 

"Don't  talk  philosophy." 

She  raised  her  delicately  penciled  eyebrows.  "My 
dear  Captain  Hood!" 

"Well,  then,  ethics  or  whatever  you  call  it.  I'm  no 
match  for  you  at  talk,  and  I  know  it." 

Her  upper  lip,  one  of  the  prettiest  upper  lips  that 
was,  so  to  speak,  in  the  public  eye  for  the  moment, 
curled  up  in  a  delicious  way,  and  a  little  dimple  ap- 
peared in  either  cheek.  She  laughed  again,  but  his 
tio^mge  flattered  her. 

"You  are  a  ridiculous  being,"  she  said,  "and  you  are 
interrupting  my  supper.  Look,  there's  old  Barbara 
Questingham.  Nasty  old  woman,  I  hate  her." 

"She's  of  no  consequence.     Amy " 

"My  name  is  Mrs.  Dorset." 

16 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

She  was  enjoying  herself  with  all  the  zest,  not  of  a 
cat,  perhaps,  but  certainly  of  a  kitten;  he  was  her 
latest  capture,  her  little  mouse,  and  her  soft  paw  dealt 
him  blows  that  hurt.  Perhaps,  one  day,  she  would 
scratch  him.  Who  could  tell? 

To  him  the  situation  showed  itself  in  a  different 
aspect.  He  was  a  wolf,  a  predatory,  sharp-toothed 
wolf,  and  she  was  a  delicious,  juicy  white  lamb. 

For  the  moment  she  was  protected  by  the  presence  of 
the  flock,  but  he  meant  the  day  to  come  when  he 
should  enjoy  crunching  her  wee  bones. 

He  drew  his  stolen  sheep  skin  closer  round  him,  and 
smiled,  hiding  his  teeth. 

"You  are  cruel,"  he  sighed ;  "you  like  to  hurt  me !" 

And  so  limited  was  the  extent  to  which  her  brain 
was  trained  to  observation  and  understanding,  that  this 
crude  and  moss-grown  tribute  pleased  her. 

Opening  her  big  gray  eyes  very  wide  indeed,  the 
painted  lashes  casting  a  shadow  on  her  cheeks  as  she 
did  so,  she  gazed  at  him  reproachfully. 

"If  you  are  going  to  say  things  like  that  I  shan't 
like  you." 

"Like  me !  But  do  you  like  me  ?  Do  you  like  me  at 
all — ever  so  little?" 

Seeing  Lady  Barbara's  eyes  fixed  on  her  with  mali- 
cious enjoyment,  Mrs.  Dorset  laughed  gayly. 

"You  waltz  better  than  anyone  I  ever  met — except 

17 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

a  youth  at  the  American  Embassy,  and  he  must  have 
been  the  Nijinski  of  the  Heavenly  Ballet,  dropped 
through  a  hole  in  the  sky." 

"That  young  man  means  mischief,"  observed  March- 
ington.  "What  kind  of  a  fellow  is  Dorset?" 

"I  told  you  I  didn't  know — except  that  he's  dull. 
As  to  Archie  Hood,  of  course  he  means  mischief.  It  is 
what  he  was  born  for,  and  thus  far  he  has  justified  his 
existence." 

"But  doesn't  Dorset  come  with  her  to  these  balls 
and  things?" 

Lady  Barbara  gobbled  a  little  yellow  cake  before  she 
answered. 

"Oh,  yes,  he  comes  to  them,  but  he  also  goes  away 
from  them.  He  brought  her  tonight.  I  saw  him." 

"Who'll  take  her  home?" 

"No  one,  she'll  go  alone,  in  her  impeccable  Daimler. 
Oh,  she's  very  prudent,  my  dear  Major.  She's  a  little 
baggage,  but  she's  technically  as  impeccable  as  her 
motor  car." 

"Prudent?" 

"Yes,  and  cold-blooded.  If  she  had  a  brain  I  should 
call  her  a  cerebral  coquette,  but  she  has  no  brain.  Her 
little  head  is  stuffed  with  powder-puffs." 

At  the  other  table  things  were  becoming  tense,  for 
in  spite  of  his  having  a  definite  line  of  campaign  Archie 
Hood  was  in  earnest.  He  was  violently  in  love  with 

18 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

the  lamb  he  intended  to  devour.     Also,  he  considered 
that  he  had  been  trifled  with  about  long  enough. 

"But  I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  he  said  sharply, 
his  dark,  handsome  face  flushed,  his  slightly  overred 
lower  lip  thrust  out. 

"Tell  me  now." 

"I  can't.  You  can  quite  well  tell  your  man  you  art 
out,  tomorrow  afternoon " 

"Then  he  wouldn't  let  you  in,"  she  teased. 

"I  mean  you  can  tell  him  after  I've  got  there." 

"I  can.     But— I  won't!" 

She  rose.     "Let's  go  upstairs.     I  want  to  dance." 

Without  a  word  he  followed  her,  and  they  went  back 
to  the  ballroom  in  silence.  At  the  door  she  turned  to 
speak,  but  to  her  surprise  he  bowed  ceremoniously  and 
left  her. 

It  was  a  primitive  move,  but  it  is  always  a  safe  one, 
and  in  Amy  Dorset's  case  it  chanced  to  be  peculiarly 
effective.  It  had  never  happened  to  her  before! 

For  a  moment  she  stood  staring  after  the  only  man 
who  had  ever  so  treated  her,  her  face  paling  under  the 
artistically  applied  color,  and  seeming  to  solidify  into 
a  look  of  maturity  unusual  to  it.  Then,  as  a  man  ap- 
proached, she  threw  back  her  head,  smiled  and  said  to 
him,  "Willy,  will  you  dance  with  me?" 

Willy  Addison-Gore,  an  elderly  and  very  dull  relative 
of  her  husband,  was  enchanted. 

19 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Will  I?    Try  me.    But  why  this  favor?" 

"I  don't  know — I'd  always  dance  with  you  if  you 
asked  me " 

Willy  Addison-Gore  was  dull,  but  he  was  no  fool  like 
so  many  dull  people,  notwithstanding  the  contrary 
judgment  of  the  bored. 

"Nonsense,  Amy,"  he  panted  as  he  capered  about 
under  the  impression  that  he  was  waltzing.  "You  know 
I  stopped  asking  you  because  you  always  threw  me 
over " 

At  this  juncture,  Lady  Barbara  and  her  old  squire 
entered  the  room,  and  the  lady  broke  into  an  unusual 
feminine  ejaculation. 

"God  bless  my  soul,"  she  cried,  "she's  dancing  with 
WiUy  Addison-Gore !" 

"And  why  shouldn't  she?" 

"Look  at  him  and  you'll  see  why  she  shouldn't — 
and  doesn't!  I've  never  seen  her  dance  with  him  be- 
fore." 

"He  is  pretty  rotten,"  commented  the  Major  with 
the  delicacy  of  language  that  distinguished  his  as  a 
nation. 

Lady  Barbara  sat  down  and  arranged  on  her  bodice 
the  priceless  laces  that  might  have  been  placed  a  little 
higher. 

"She  must,"  she  declared  with  satisfaction,  "have 
had  a  row  with  Archie  Hood." 

20 


IV 

LETTER  NO.  1 

Wednesday 
MOST  BEAUTIFUL: 

Your  letter  has  just  come.  God  bless  you  for  sending  it. 
I  have  had  a  frightful  night — I  hope  you  may  never  have 
one  like  it.  I  was  a  brute  and  a  swine,  and  I  ask  your 
pardon  in  spite  of  your  angelic  letter. 

It  is  absurd  that  you  should  beg  my  pardon,  no  matter 
what  you  did  to  me,  but  as  you  ask  it,  O  Lili-Lady,  I  give 
it  to  you  on  my  knees.  But  one  thing  I  cannot  do — I 
cannot  come  to  see  you. 

I  need  not  apologize  for  not  coming,  for  I  know  only  too 
well  that  you  asked  me  only  out  of  the  kindness  of  your 
gracious  heart,  and  I  will  not  tell  you  why  I  am  not  coming. 

You  would  be  angry  if  I  did  tell  you.  I  shall  go  abroad 
in  a  few  days  for  six  weeks.  My  sister — the  one  who 
married  the  Austrian — wants  me  to  look  her  up  and  inspect 
her  new  son,  and  it  will  be  well  for  me  to  get  out  of  Eng- 
land for  a  time. 

If  you  don't  understand  why,  well  and  good.  If  you  do, 
try  to  pity  me  a  little. 

Perhaps  you  won't  mind,  just  for  once,  my  signing 
myself 

Your  devoted 

ARCHIE  HOOD. 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

LETTER  NO.  2 

Wednesday 
DEAR  BBRTL: 

Of  course  I  shall  be  at  home  to  tea  'today — if  there's 
any  chance  of  your  blowing  in. 

I  don't  believe  your  lovely  nose  is  peeling  and  that  you're 
covered  with  river  freckles,  but  even  if  you're  telling  the 
truth,  J  don't  regret  our  outing.  Hope  Kitty  Southey  didn't 
see  us,  but  if  she  did  she  won't  dare  tell,  will  she? 

Tout  a  toi, 

ARCHIE. 

LETTER  NO.  3 

ALYS,  MY  DEAREST: 

Of  course  I  haven't  forgotten  you.  I  have  been  driven 
to  death  by  all  sorts  of  tiresome  people  and  things  or  I 
should  have  called  you  up  days  ago. 

I  dreamt  about  you  last  night,  my  splendid  Juno,  but  I'll 
not  tell  you  the  dream. 

Goose,  how  can  you  bother  about  anyone,  since  the  other 
evening  ? 

If  you  only  knew  how  immaturity  bores  me!  I  always 
think  a  beautiful  woman  is  at  her  best  between  thirty-five 
and  forty. 

As  to  the  other  lady  you  wrote  about — who  on  earth  told 
you  such  a  lie  ? 

I  hardly  know  her — we  dance  together  sometimes,  but  I've 
never  even  seen  the  woman  alone.  This,  to  console  you, 
on  my  honor. 

Besides — have  you  ever  seen  her  ?  Pretty,  of  course,  but 
no  bigger  than  the  statuette  on  your  writing-table,  and  you 
know  my  taste ! 

Darling,  I  can't  come  this  evening — have  to  dine  with  my 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

aunt,  and  take  her  to  a  play.  Tomorrow,  too,  I'm  tied  up. 
But  on  Monday,  if  you  are  free,  we  might  go  say  to  Rich- 
mond Park  and  then  come  back  and  dine?  I  am  longing 
to  see  you.  All  my  love,  and  don't  be  a  jealous,  silly 
darling. 

ARCHIE. 

LETTER    NO.    4 

Wednesday 
DEAR  VERA, 

Sorry,  but  I  can't  lunch  or  dine  for  at  least  a  fortnight. 
Full  up.  Hope  you  are  better.  For  heaven's  sake  try  not 
to  fuss.  We  might  both  be  very  grateful  for  the  happy 
times  we  have  had.  I  never  reproach  you,  do  I  ?  Bless  you, 
dear. 

Yours, 

A.  M.  H. 

LETTER    NO.    5 

Wednesday 
KIDDIE  DEAR, 

Let's  go  on  the  river  tomorrow.  Meet  me  at  Pad  at 
eleven  and  arrange  to  dine  as  well.  So  you  saw  me  the 
other  day  "with  a  fat  middle-aged  woman  with  dyed  hair 
and  big  pearls"? 

You  did.  Do  you  mind  my  being  kind  to  old  ladies,  you 
wee  loon? 

You  being  only  seventeen,  I  can  tell  you  with  safety  of 
my  theory  that  all  women  ought  to  be  painlessly  put  to 
death  at  eight-and-twenty. 

If  only  you  knew  how  I  loathe  fat  and  rouge  and — 
le  reste.  Well,  my  sweet,  meet  me  at  Pad  at  eleven  tomor- 
row. Until  then  all  my  love. 

ARCHIE-P  ARCHIE. 
23 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

LETTER    NO.    6 

DEAR  GERALD, 

I  roared  over  your  letter.  It  must  have  been  a  scream. 
Women  are  funny  things — up  to  jealousy  point,  at  which 
they  become  more  damnably  boring  than  the  worst  male 
bore  that  ever  lived. 

As  to  me,  Vera  is  pestering  as  usual.  The  girl  has  no 
sense  at  all,  and  I  shall  soon  have  to  send  her  letters  back 
unopened.  I've  treated  her  jolly  well,  too. 

You  remember  my  telling  you  about  my  mature  charmer 
— husband  in  China,  or  something — fat,  fair,  and  forty- 
odd — whom  I  met  on  the  Marmora?  I'm  worried  about 
her,  she's  getting  so  infernally  sentimental.  Heaven  pre- 
serve me  from  overripe  passion.  She's  got  some  letters  I'd 
give  something  to  have  back,  too.  I'm  a  bit  of  a  fool,  you 
know,  and  she  had  a  certain  charm  in  spite  of  her  age ! 

That's  the  worst  of  a  P.  &  O.,  one  always  gets  involved 
with  someone,  and  this  one  was  a  Venus  compared  with  the 
other  women  on  board.  There  never  was  such  a  lot  of 
pelicans  on  a  single  boat,  since  the  world  began.  However, 
— I  daresay  it'll  be  all  right,  and  Millipede  is  a  treasure. 
I  tell  you  that  fellow's  skill  with  women  is  nothing  less  than 
marvelous.  I  couldn't  live  without  him,  but  he's  wasted  as 
a  valet,  he  ought  to  be  an  ambassador. 

I  have  a  new  flamelet  since  I  saw  you,  by  the  bye.  A 
lovely  kid  of  seventeen.  Hair  just  up,  freckles.  She's  the 
rummest  little  mixture  of  ignorance  and  knowingness  that 
one  could  meet.  Perfectly  all  right,  you  understand — a 
lady.  Amusing  to  hear  her  views  and  wonder  how  she'll 
turn  out. 

At  present,  she  adores  me  and  tells  me  so.  She  also  be- 
lieves in  free  love,  the  baby ! 

I  shan't  see  too  much  of  her,  I  might  lose  my  head. 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

This  is  a  rotten  letter,  all  about  women. 

Oh,  there  isn't  a  word  of  truth  in  what  you  were  told 
about  Mrs.  D. 

I  admire  her  tremendously — don't  you? — but  she's  not 
at  all  my  type,  and  as  to  my  being  in  love  with  her,  dear 
old  chap,  you  needn't  worry! 

I  saw  the  pater  last  week  and  his  frame  of  mind  is  most 
unsatisfactory.  He  has  a  rooted  antipathy  to  debts,  and 
can't  understand  my  partiality  for  them. 

Also,  he  objects  to  my  being  what  he  calls  a  roue.  This 
old-fashioned  word — reminds  one  of  Crawford!  Isn't  he 
odd  ?  I  asked  him  what  he'd  do  if  I  gambled  like  you,  and 
he  had  the  bad  taste  to  say  he'd  prefer  me  to  have  any  vice 
rather  than  that  of  indiscriminate  immorality.  Oh  Lord ! 

Well,  old  man,  good-bye  for  today.    Write  soon. 

ARCHIE. 


MR.  ROLAND  IMMENHAM,  his  umbrella  pro- 
tecting him  from  the  driving  rain,  stood  at 
Stanhope  Gate  at  three  o'clock. 

He  was  a  handsome,  portly  man  with  a  nose  rather 
like  Lord  Haldane's,  and  a  somewhat  Napoleonic  eye. 

He  was  well  dressed  in  dark,  perfectly  cut  clothes, 
and  his  doeskin  gloves  were  of  the  exact  degree  of 
shabbiness  that,  paradoxically,  was,  for  the  moment, 
smart. 

No  man  likes  to  stand  in  a  chilly  rainstorm  with  his 
feet  in  muddy  patent-leather  boots,  and  Mr.  Immen- 
ham's  distinguished  features  wore  an  expression  less 
urbane  than  was  their  wont.  He  was  of  indoor  habits 
and  preferred  comfort  to  nature  in  practice,  though 
theoretically  he  was  devoted  to  mountains. 

And  the  rain  beat  down  on  him  with  what  seemed 
to  him  a  cruel  persistency ;  buses  roared  past,  poisoning 
the  air  and  shaking  the  earth  with  their  hideous  per- 
sonalities. 

Immenham,  who  lived  in  Park  Lane,  bitterly  resented 
the  invasion  of  that  moneyed  thoroughfare  by  the 

26 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

plebeian  vehicles.  He  hated  the  crowds  of  common 
people  who  stood  in  groups  awaiting  the  snorting,  bad- 
smelling,  vociferous  pests;  he  hated  the  ambulatory 
advertisements  that  debased  the  view  from  the  windows 
of  Number  875;  he  resented  the  ruin  of  the  roadway 
that  defied  even  the  springs  of  the  most  luxurious  pri- 
vate cars. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  aristocrat  to  his  marrow,  and 
should  have  lived  in  the  feudal  days  when  the  lower 
orders  could  be  imprisoned  or  even  hanged  with  so  much 
less  trouble  than  they  can  be  fined  five  shillings  now. 

"Hello,  Immenham !"  A  tall,  thin  man  with  a  humor- 
ously wrinkled  face  had  come  through  the  gate.  "This 
looks  romantic — waiting  for  someone,  eh?'* 

"Oh  no,"  the  elder  man  returned,  sardonically,  "I  am 
standing  here  in  this  damned  rain  just  for  fun — it's  a 
hobby !" 

"Well — they  say  rain's  good  for  the  complexion.  Is 
Mrs.  Dorset  at  home,  do  you  happen  to  know?" 

"I  left  there  half  an  hour  ago,  and  she  was  in 
then.  I  can't  tell  you  where  she  may  be  by  this  time. 
Why?" 

"Hood  asked  me  to  leave  a  note  for  her,  that's  all." 

"M-m.    Aren't  you  going  to  see  Miss  Archbold?" 

The  other  man  laughed.  "Not  today,  dear  old  chap, 
I  say,  I'm  inclined  to  think  Hood  is  rather  keen  about 
Mrs.  D.  What?" 

27 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Immenham  frowned  slightly.  "I  don't  much  care 
about  discussing  women,  you  know,"  he  said. 

"Of  course — of  course.  But — well,  from  something 
he  said  to  me  last  night  I  fancied  it  might  be  serious 
this  time." 

"I  dislike  Captain  Hood,"  returned  Immenham 
curtly,  shifting  his  umbrella  as  a  gust  of  wind  sent 
what  seemed  a  small  waterfall  down  the  back  of  his  neck. 

The  other  man  laughed.  "He's  not  such  a  bad  sort 
if  you  know  him  well.  Bit  of  a  petticoat-chaser,  of 
course,  but  then  the  women  do  their  full  share  of  the 
chasing.  Devilish  good-looking  chap  he  is,  you  know." 

"Yes,  he's  not  bad-looking.  His  father  told  Charles 
Corby  the  other  day  that  he  was  breaking  his  heart." 

"Oh,  the  old  man's  a  prig — and  close-fisted.  Whereas 
Archie-Parchie,  as  Lord  Clanroberts'  fourth  girl  calls 
him,  is  at  least  generous.  You've  heard  about  that 
little  actress,  Vera  Pomeroy?  He  gave  her  a  thousand 
quid  down  when  they  parted — a  fortune  for  a  girl  like 
that.  Damned  ungrateful  little  swine,  too.  Pesters 
the  life  out  of  him  still." 

Immenham  looked  at  the  speaker  with  something  like 
contempt  in  his  fine  eyes.  "You  seem  to  be  very  inti- 
mate with  Captain  Hood,"  he  observed  coldly. 

"I  am.  I  believe  he  tells  me  more  than  he  tells  anyone 
else.  I've  been  able  to  do  him  one  or  two  good  turns, 
you  understand,  and — well,  he  knows  I  don't  talk." 

28 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Don't  you?" 

The  younger  man's  grin  faded,  giving  place  to  a  look 
of  resentment,  but  he  answered  with  a  shrug. 

"No — I  don't  talk,  Immenham." 

A  short,  rosy-faced  young  girl  in  a  blue  serge  coat 
and  skirt,  was  waiting  to  cross  the  road  towards  them, 
and  Immenham  raised  his  hat  to  her. 

"That's  my  sister,"  he  said  hastily.  "She  won't 
come  to  the  house,  as  she  dislikes  Mrs.  Jardine — gooid 
afternoon." 

The  other  man,  however,  stayed  him  with  a  gesture. 

"One  minute — out  of  justice  to  Hood.  I  know  you 
dislike  him " 

"Captain  Hood's  affairs  are  no  concern  of  mine," 
Immenham  answered  curtly,  "but  I  should  have  thought 
he  was  gentleman  enough  not  to  give  away  the  names 
of  the  poor  fools  of  women  who  trusted  him." 

"But  he  doesn't !" 

"He  does.    He  told  you  about  Miss  Pomeroy." 

The  girl  in  the  blue  coat  and  skirt  had,  at  a  sign 
from  the  man  she  had  come  to  meet,  walked  slowly  off 
to  the  right,  and  the  younger  man  went  on  in  his  curious 
defense. 

"No,  no,  he  didn't.  She  told  me  about  it  herself. 
I  met  her  in  the  lift  one  day,  and  she  raised  an  awful 
row  trying  to  see  him  and  told  me  all  about  it.  I  know 
he's  a  pretty  bad  lot,  Immenham,  but  he  isn't  that 

29 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

kind  of  a  cad.     He  tells  me  a  lot,  but — never  a  name." 
"So  much  the  better  then.     Good  afternoon." 
The  big  man  bowed  civilly  and  hurried  on  to  join  the 

girl,  whose  arm  he  linked  in  his  as  they  hurried  to  a  taxi. 
"My  dear,"  she  said,  "I  am  so  sorry  you  have  been 

waiting  in  the  wet " 

"You  should  have  come  to  me,  Rose." 

"No — I  do  so  dislike  Mrs.  Jardine,  Rowley,  and  if 

it  had  been  fine  it  would  have  been  fun,  wouldn't  it, 

waiting  there  at  the  Gate  and  seeing  the  people?" 


VI 

LETTER  NO.  1 

Thursday 
DEAR  FATHER, 

Thanks  very  much  for  the  jam.  Tell  Maggie  it  is  much 
better  than  anyone  can  buy,  and  that  the  Duchess  of  Bra- 
bant ate  a  lot  of  it  at  tea  yesterday. 

I  wish  I  could  come  to  you  for  a  week,  but  I  can't — too 
fearfully  busy.  Is  it  really  eighteen  months  since  you  saw 
me  ?  Doesn't  seem  possible !  No  news  in  particular.  You'll 
have  read  in  the  papers  about  the  Cham's  visit.  That  was 
rather  fun.  He's  very  yellow,  has  odd  table  manners,  and 
the  only  English  woman  he  admired  was  the  fat  lady  of  a 
circus  he  met  at  a  railway  station  and  tried  to  buy ! 

No,  I  haven't  seen  Aunt  Katie,  but  I  will  go  soon.  I  am 
quite  well,  although  so  busy.  Sorry  you  mind  about  my  hair. 
Between  you  and  me  it  was  beginning  to  get  dull  and  a 
tiny  bit  gray,  and  that  I  could  not  bear. 

The  stuff  is  vegetable  and  quite  harmless,  and — most  be- 
coming, though  a  little  redder  than  I  meant  to  have  it.  Mrs. 
Graves  was  a  cat  to  tell  you !  However,  when  one  thinks  of 
Ethelyn  one  can  forgive  her  mother  anything. 

Hope  your  rheumatism  is  better.     I  must  send  you  some 
stuff  Lord  Penhollyn  told  me  of.    It  has  quite  cured  him. 
Your  affectionate  daughter, 

AMY. 

31 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

LETTER  NO.  2 

DEAR  LADY  EVA, 

Of  course  I  am  delighted  to  help  you  with  your  new  home. 
I  always  think  epileptics  so  frightfully  tragic,  poor  dears ! 
I  believe  it's  a  most  interesting  disease — Sir  George  Bigge- 
Fease  was  talking  about  it  the  other  night,  and  says  it  is 
very  psychic. 

I  wish  I  could  send  you  fifty  pounds,  but  the  Bishop  of 
Thanet  wants  me  to  help  him  with  his  clerical  dipsomaniacs, 
some  of  whom  seem  to  be  very  deserving,  so,  alas,  it  must  be 
only  twenty-five  pounds  for  you  this  time. 

Has  your  daughter's  baby  come  home  yet?  I  thought  her 
looking  lonely  the  other  day,  driving. 

Kindest  regards,  dear  Lady  Eva. 

Yours  sincerely, 

AMY  DORSET. 


LETTER  NO.  3 

Thursday 
DEAREST  Vi, 

What  a  tiresome  old  thing  you  have  become !  Your  letter 
would  have  bored  me  to  death  if  it  hadn't  been  yours.  Of 
course  I'm  frivolous,  dear — was  I  ever  anything  else?  Be- 
sides I'm  not  a  bit  worse  than  all  my  intimate  friends. 
What's  more,  I'm  the  only  one  of  our  little  lot  who  ever 
reads  a  word,  and  you  know  how  fond  I  am  of  serious  liter- 
ature. Have  you  read  "Sex  and  Character"  ?  Fascinating ! 
There's  a  new  book  by  Allbury,  "The  Souls  of  Vegetables," 
which  I  am  enchanted  with.  Of  course,  he  doesn't  really 
think  vegetables  have  souls,  but  he  theorizes  as  if  they  had. 

It  is  stiff  reading,  but  most  engrossing.  However,  when 
all's  said  and  done,  there's  no  one  like  dear  old  Plato ! 

32 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

I  do  wish  I  could  get  away  and  come  to  Dulborough  for 
a  while.  It  would  rest  me  so  wonderfully.  But  I  can't — 
every  moment  is  full  up  to  the  very  end  of  the  month.  I 
sometimes  wish  I  weren't  so  awfully  busy,  Vi  dear. 

You  and  Sam  must  be  very  happy  in  that  lovely  old 
vicarage,  with  your  evenings  to  yourselves. 

My  love  to  you  all,  especially  to  Mademoiselle  Ma  Fil- 
leule. 

I  am  sending  her  a  little  frock  today.  Very  simple,  just 
a  few  tucks  and  some  tiny  flowers  embroidered  on,  but  I 
think  you'll  like  it. 

Do  make  Sam  publish  his  sermons.  I  often  think  of  that 
one  about  St.  John.  It  was  beautiful. 

Good-bye  for  today,  dear  Puritan. 

AMY. 

P.  S.  You  wouldn't  have  minded  the  tableaux  vivants  at 
all  if  you'd  seen  them.  The  man  in  mine  was  only  nine- 
teen ! 

LETTER  NO.  4 

Thursday 
DEAR  MR.  BEAUMONT, 

Your  letter  was  a  great  surprise  to  me,  and  in  answer  to 
it  I  can  only  say  that  you  wrong  me.  I  hadn't  the  slightest 
idea  that  you  really  cared  for  me,  or  I  should  never  have 
danced  with  you  so  much.  As  to  the  rose — I  would  give  a 
rose  to  anyone  who  asked  me.  I  am  sorry  this  has  hap- 
pened, but  I  think  you  had  better  not  come  to  see  me  any 
more  for  a  while. 

I  am  not  angry,  but  it  will  be  best. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

AMY  DORSET. 
33 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

LETTER  NO.  5 

Thursday 
DEAR  BILLY, 

You  are  a  wicked,  abandoned  child  to  go  and  gamble. 
You  deserve  to  be  spanked  and  put  to  bed!  However,  as 
you  are  only  nineteen,  and  my  second  cousin,  I'll  forgive 
you  this  time.  I  inclose  the  eighty  pounds  and  for  good- 
ness' sake  don't  tell  your  mother.  She  is  an  angel  and  it 
would  break  her  heart.  I  can't  scold  you  really,  but  O,  my 
dear,  please  don't  gamble. 

Your  affectionate  cousin, 

AMY. 

I'm  so  glad  you  had  the  sense  to  write  to  me  instead  of 
anyone  else. 

LETTER  NO.  6 

Thursday 
DEAR  CAPTAIN  HOOD, 

Thanks  for  your  very  nice  note.     I  do  hope  you'll  have 
fun  in  Austria.     Please  remember  me  to  the  Baroness. 
Yours  very  sincerely, 

AMY  DORSET. 

P.  S.  I  have  a  cold  and  shall  be  in  all  the  afternoon  if 
you  have  time  to  come  to  say  good-bye.  Isn't  this  weather 
too  beastly  for  words? 


VII 


HO,  ho!     Madame   Tanagra   in    an   epistolary 
mood!" 

Mrs.  Dorset  started.  She  had  not  heard 
the  door  open,  nor  the  footsteps,  over  the  thick  carpet, 
of  her  friend. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  Lawrence.     How  d'you  do?" 

They  kissed  the  air  somewhere  near  each  other's  ears, 
for  Lawrence  Croxley  was  a  woman,  and  then  sat  down. 

"Could  somebody  bring  me  a  pair  of  man-sized  slip- 
pers?" Miss  Croxley  began.  "It's  absolutely  pouring 
and  my  feet  are  wet  up  to  the  knees." 

As  she  spoke  she  kicked  off  her  immense  patent- 
leather  shoes  and  held  her  feet  to  the  fire,  which  the 
Arctic  quality  of  the  July  day  had  made  not  a  luxury, 
but  a  necessity. 

"You  didn't  walk,  surely?" 

"I  pilgrimaged  hither  from  the  fastnesses  of  B'ys- 
water  by  the  homely  and  loathly  bus." 

Mrs.  Dorset  rang.  "Ask  Briggs  for  a  pair  of  Mr. 
Dorset's  slippers,  please,  Immenham,"  she  said. 

The  little  blue  drawing-room  was  very  cozy  that  wet 

35 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

day,  and  Mrs.  Dorset  was  dressed  for  it.  For  a  room 
whose  carpet  and  walls  are  sapphire  blue,  whose  cur- 
tains and  cushions  are  emerald  green,  the  best  auxiliary 
color  is  a  deep  yellow  cream,  and  of  this  delightful  hue 
was  composed  the  simple  frock  at  which  Lawrence 
Croxley  was  staring  through  her  very  convex-lensed 
lorgnon. 

"That's  a  nice  thing  you  have  on,  Amykin." 

"Yes,  isn't  it?" 

"Whose?" 

"Arthur's" — pronounced  in  the  French  way. 

"He's  the  Only  One  nowadays,"  approved  the  thin, 
brown  woman  in  the  old-fashioned  coat  and  skirt.  Mrs. 
Dorset  nodded,  as  the  butler  reappeared,  a  pair  of 
crimson  leather  slippers  in  his  hand. 

"Thanks,  Immenham." 

The  slippers  fitted  beautifully,  and  with  a  sigh  of 
the  delicious  creature  comfort  experienced  only  by 
luxury-loving  folk  who  have  traveled  on  a  wet  day  by 
bus,  Miss  Croxley  lit  a  cigarette. 

She  was  a  woman  of  forty-five  with  the  most  angular 
elbows  in  the  world.  Sporting  boy  cousins  had  been 
known  to  hang  their  caps  on  her  shoulders,  under  the 
alleged  impression  that  they  were  hat-rack  pegs.  Her 
brown  face,  as  thin  as  a  face  can  be,  possessed  a  large, 
bony  nose,  and  cavernous  black  eyes  that  could,  on  oc- 
casion, blaze  with  rage  or  dance  with  malice. 

36 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

She  was  the  only  child  of  a  frivolous  and  ruined 
peer,  and  lived  in  cheap  lodgings  in  Bayswater.  Under 
her  bed  dwelt  a  large  sole-leather  trunk  in  which,  under 
double  lock,  was  a  jewel  case  with  V.  C.  Croxley  of 
Cruxworth  printed  on  it  in  faded  gold  letters.  The 
jewel  case,  which  had  belonged  to  the  late  Baroness, 
was  now  empty  but  for  one  object — the  Croxley  neck- 
lace. 

The  Croxley  necklace  was  a  remarkably  fine  one, 
of  large  emeralds,  and  it  was,  as  well  as  being  Miss 
Croxley 's  only  jewel,  the  source  of  a  spirited  and  amus- 
ing feud  between  her  father  and  herself.  The  old  man 
could  not  sell  it,  for  it  must,  at  his  death,  go  to  his  heir, 
but  he  had,  in  the  old  days,  more  than  once  pawned 
it,  trusting  to  luck  for  its  redemption. 

It  had  always  been  redeemed  by  sentimental  or  in- 
furiated relations,  but  on  Lady  Croxley's  death,  it  was 
found  to  have  disappeared.  After  a  frantic  search,  his 
daughter,  who  had  gone  abroad  after  the  funeral,  wrote 
from  Munich  to  tell  him  that  she  had  stolen  it  and  taken 
it  with  her. 

"I  shan't  sell  it  or  pawn  it,"  she  added,  "for, 
strangely  enough,  I  am  honest.  But  I  shall  keep  it  with 
me,  and  sometimes  when  I  wish  to  be  unsually  lovely, 
I  shall  wear  it." 

This  simple  program  she  had  carried  out  to  the  full. 

Lord  Croxley  had  done  his  best  to  get  the  necklace 

37 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

back — he  was  one  of  those  unpleasant  men  who  bluster 
at  their  womenkind — but  he  had  failed. 

He  failed  because  he  dared  not  take  the  matter  into 
a  court  of  law,  and  because  his  daughter,  whom  he 
called  "a  damned  ugly  old  maid,"  was  not  in  the  least 
afraid  of  him. 

Once  they  had  even  met  while  the  jewel  lay  on  her 
flat  brown  bosom,  but  he  dared  do  nothing,  as  it  was  at 
a  political  party  in  a  great  crowd. 

"You're  very  fine  this  evening,"  he  sneered,  his  hand- 
some, weak  old  face  distorted  by  a  smile  that  showed 
his  too  white,  too  even  teeth. 

"Yes,  I'm  at  my  handsomest,  I'm  told,"  she  retorted. 
"Emeralds  are  so  becoming !" 

Then  she  added  as  she  moved  away  on  the  arm  of  a 
thoroughly  ill-at-ease  young  man,  "Don't  grind  your 
teeth,  Papa  dear — you'll  break  them." 

Miss  Croxley  was,  as  she  had  said,  honest. 

Twice  she  might  have  made  money  by  lending  the 
necklace  to  ladies  who  wished  to  scintillate  at  compara- 
tively small  expense,  and  in  one  case  at  least  the  trans- 
action might  have  been  kept  a  secret  forever,  for  Mrs. 
Hamilton  Fryer  was  an  American  in  town  for  the  season 
and  offered  to  have  the  emeralds  newly  mounted  for  her 
own  wear  and  then  returned  to  their  clumsy,  old- 
fashioned  setting  before  she  returned  them  to  Miss 
Croxley. 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

But  Miss  Croxley  said  no. 

"They  aren't  mine,"  she  declared,  "and  I  can't  let 
them  go  out  of  my  hands.  They  are  only  in  my  hands 
because  mine  are  one  degree  better  than  my  father's, 
and  here  they  stay  until  Joe  Charlton  gets  them." 

"You've  written  a  lot  of  letters,  Tannie  dear,"  she 
began  after  a  pause,  using  her  diminutive  of  the  nick- 
name bestowed  by  a  French  diplomat  on  her  friend. 

"Yes.     It's  too  wet  to  go  out,  and " 

"And  someone  is  coming  to  see  you  at  about  six." 

"Lawrence !  How  on  earth !"  Little  Madame  Tana- 
gra's  exquisite  face  flushed  with  amazement,  but  Law- 
rence Croxley  only  laughed. 

"I  know !  I  feel  declarations  in  my  bones,  and  despair 
and  tea  and  promises  of  Real  Friendship !" 

"O  Lawrence !" 

Mrs.  Dorset,  like  everybody  else,  depended  somewhat 
as  to  personality  on  the  person  with  whom  she  found 
herself. 

Lawrence  Croxley  always  reduced  her  to  a  former 
condition  of  rather  helpless  childishness.  Not  to  her 
did  she  prattle  of  Plato. 

"Oh  yes,  I  know,  my  dear,"  repeated  her  friend,  smil- 
ing at  her  as  one  smiles  at  a  delightful  child.  "Who 
is  it?  Pasquier  le  Breton?  Or  that  good-looking  ass — 
What's-his-name — Hood  ?" 

39 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"You  are  talking  awful  nonsense,  but  as  a  matter  of 
fact  Captain  Hood  is  coming  in  later.  He's  going  to 
Austria  tomorrow  and  is  coming  to  say  good-bye  to  me. 
There,  that's  frank,  at  any  rate!" 

"You  knew  I  wouldn't  go  till  you  told  me." 

"Cat!  However,  I  must  send  the  note.  Here's  his 
to  me — read  it  if  you  like!  It  only  came  an  hour 
ago." 

Miss  Croxley,  suddenly  very  grave  as  she  gazed  at 
her  friend  through  her  glasses,  the  strength  of  whose 
lenses  made  her  look  like  an  ant,  thrust  out  her  hand. 

"I'd  rather  see  yours  to  him,  if  I  may,  Amy." 

Mrs.  Dorset  gave  a  little  laugh  and  took  up  the 
topmost  of  the  pile  of  letters  on  the  table. 

"Right  you  are.     I'll  address  another  envelope." 

Miss  Croxley  read  the  note,  slowly,  twice. 

"Well?" 

"Amy — I  am  very  fond  of  you." 

"My  dear,  I  know  you  are,  but — I  don't  quite 
see " 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Lawrence  did  an  odd 
thing.  She  asked  Amy  to  let  her  read  all  the  letters 
she  had  written. 

Mrs.  Dorset  reflected  for  a  moment.  "I  don't  see 
why  you  should,"  she  said  slowly,  "but  I  know  you 
aren't — you  aren't  just  being  curious.  Well,  I  don't 
mind,  dear.  You  may  read  them." 

40 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

While  Miss  Croxley  read  the  letters  Mrs.  Dorset 
stood  at  the  window  looking  out  into  the  rain. 

At  last  she  turned.  Miss  Croxley  had  laid  the  letters 
on  the  table,  and  their  envelopes  were  in  the  fire,  blazing 
high. 

"Well,  Lawrence,  dear?" 

"I  was  right,"  said  the  elder  woman. 

"Right!  But  you  must  have  thought  I  was — flirt- 
ing or  something " 

"No.  At  least,  not  more  than  usual.  And  I  never 
minded  you  flirting,  Amy." 

Something  in  her  voice  made  Mrs.  Dorset  uneasy. 

"Well,  then " 

"I'll  go  now,  dear,  and — thanks  for  trusting  me." 

Amy  waited  while  the  damp,  smoking  shoes  were 
squeezed  on  to  her  friend's  unhappy  feet.  Then  she 
asked  plaintively,  "But  what  have  I  done,  Lawrence? 
I've  never  seen  you  like  this — what  have  I  done?" 

Lawrence  Croxley  kissed  her  cheek — a  real  kiss  this 
time. 

"You  have,"  she  answered  gravely  but  gently,  "writ- 
ten five  letters  and  never  so  much  as  mentioned  your 
husband's  name  in  one  of  them." 


VIII 

MRS.  DORSET,  left  alone,  sat  down  in  the  chair 
in  which  her  friend  had  sat  and  held  her  hands 
to  the  fire. 

She  loved  her  hands,  and  with  reason.  They  were 
very  beautifully  shaped,  with  long,  slim  fingers,  pink, 
smooth  palms,  and  filbert  nails.  More  than  these  things, 
counted  for  beauty  their  flexibility  and  instinctive  grace 
of  movement. 

Withal,  they  were  so  small  that  a  man  could  take 
both  into  the  embrace  of  one  of  his. 

But  as  she  gazed  at  her  hands  the  little  lady's  mind 
was  far  away — it  was  following  poor  dear  Lawrence 
Croxley  on  her  homeward  way. 

"Now  she  is  getting  into  a  bus,  and  it  is  full  and 
people  are  stepping  on  her  feet  and  their  clothes  are 
wet — smelly — and  she  has  to  squeeze  in  between  horrid 
people  closer  than  one  could  bear  to  sit  between  one's 
own  friends  !  Poor  old  Lawrence." 

She  always  thought  of  Lawrence  as  being  infinitely 
older  than  herself,  though  the  difference  was  one  of 
only  ten  years  and  a  half.  "Dear  old  Lawrence." 

42 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

The  note  had  gone  to  Captain  Hood,  and  Mrs.  Dorset 
knew  that  he  would  soon  arrive. 

"I'm  glad  Lawrence  doesn't  think  I'm  flirting  with 
him.  If  I  was,"  she  added  softly  to  herself,  "he  wouldn't 
go  to  Austria." 

Ladies  who  keep  Plato's  "Republic"  and  a  volume  of 
Pater  on  the  table  by  their  bed  are  inclined  to  think 
themselves  literary  whether  they  read  the  books  or  not, 
and  of  these  ladies  Mrs.  Dorset,  as  has  probably  already 
been  discovered  by  the  jadedly  sagacious  readers,  was 
one. 

She  glanced  at  the  clock,  and,  settling  herself  com- 
fortably in  her  chair,  took  up  a  book. 

It  was  a  large,  heavy  volume,  about  some  obscure 
Indian  religion,  and  its  citations  from  ancient  Hindu 
philosophers  were  frequent  and  lengthy. 

Mrs.  Dorset,  bending  over  it,  made  a  pretty  picture, 
and  the  prettiness  of  the  picture  was  increased  rather 
than  diminished,  when  her  eyes  closed  softly  and  her 
head  fell  against  the  emerald  green  back  of  the  chair. 

The  man  who  was  announced,  unheard,  stood  for  a 
moment  gazing  at  the  sleeping  beauty. 

He  was  a  small,  alert-looking  man  with  black  hair 
and  blue  eyes  and  a  dimple  in  his  chin. 

Briefly,  he  was  the  Vicomte  Jules-Marie  Pasquier  le 
Breton,  age  thirty- four ;  occupation,  the  arduous  duties 
of  a  third  secretary  to  his  Embassy ;  virtues,  a  love  of 

43 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

poetry,  good  temper,  and  kindness  to  animals ;  hobbies, 
old  colored  prints  and  women ;  vices,  chemin-de-fer  and 
women. 

He  was  a  clever  man  in  his  way,  and  while  he  admired 
Mrs.  Dorset  and  enjoyed  his  own  admiration  for  her, 
her  little  literary  pretensions  at  once  amused  and 
touched  him.  She  was  to  him,  in  an  odd  way,  pathetic. 

His  English  was  perfect,  but  Mrs.  Dorset  persisted 
in  speaking  French  with  him. 

There  was,  in  Paris,  an  invalid  lady  old  enough  to 
be  his  mother  and  to  whom  he  gave  the  undivided  love 
that  existed  so  curiously  in  his  heart,  coincident  with 
an  ever-changing  series  of  more  or  less  unworthy 
affairs  to  which  he  referred,  in  his  bi-weekly  letters  to 
her,  by  their  correct  name  of  amourettes. 

To  this  lady,  Madame  Samain,  he  once  explained 
Mrs.  Dorset's  French. 

"It  is,"  he  said,  "to  make  weep  the  angels.  It  is  of 
an  accent  to  wound  the  intelligence,  though,  because 
her  voice  is  as  the  cooing  of  wood-pigeons,  to  the  ear 
alone  it  is  music. 

"It  is  the  French  of  the  English  young  miss,  super- 
charged with  provincialisms  culled  from  ladies*  maids 
from  different  parts  of  our  beautiful  France;  it  is 
garnished  with  scraps  of  Parisian  slang,  of  the  jargon 
of  the  Quarter,  and  vivified  by  a  few  words  of  thieves' 
argot — words  to  make  to  rise  the  hair  on  a  French 

44 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

lady's  head.  In  a  word,  it  is  not  French,  it  is  a  touch- 
ing and  delightful  and  pathetically  absurd  little  lan- 
guage all  her  own,  and  I  wish,  my  dear  friend,  that  you 
could  hear  it." 

M.  Pasquier  le  Breton  stood  there,  then,  in  a  rap- 
turous silence,  watching  the  unconscious  possessor  of 
this  remarkable  language. 

When  she  awoke,  there  he  was,  a  book  in  his  hand, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  her  in  the  most  respectable  adoration. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  of  course,  "I  was  asleep !" 

He  bowed.  "The  excellent  Immenham  announced  me, 
but — you,  dear  Madame  Dorset,  you  were  asleep." 

He  kissed  her  hand,  and  she  switched  on  the  lights. 

"I  have  brought  you  a  book,"  he  said;  "I  know  you 
will  like  it " 

"I  adore  books,"  she  answered,  sincerely  enough,  for 
she  believed  in  her  fallacious  declaration.  "What  is 
it?" 

It  appeared  that  it  was  verse. 

"Verse  but  little  known  in  England,"  he  explained. 
"It  is  an  anthology.  There  is  of  Henri  de  Regnier,  of 
Guillard,  of  Jean  Moreas  and — others.  If  you  will 
allow  me " 

He  loved  reading  out  verse,  as  many  Frenchmen  do ; 
moreover,  he  had  come  to  read  out  verse.  He  did  so. 

Now  here  is  a  phenomenon  difficult  to  explain.  Mrs. 
Dorset  was,  as  women  go,  very  truthful.  She  had  never, 

45 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

for  example,  told  her  husband  a  lie  in  her  life.  Amongst 
her  friends  it  was  a  matter  for  good-humored  jesting 
that  Amy  couldn't  fib  if  she  wanted  to. 

Yet  in  the  very  important  matter  of  literature  the 
little  lady's  untruths  were  of  an  unblushing  effrontery. 

When  she  said  she  loved  Plato  and  Walter  Pater 
and  the  young  Weinberg,  she  thought  herself  to  be  tell- 
ing the  truth,  but  when  she  said  she  enjoyed  French 
poetry  read  to  her  by  a  Frenchman  in  French,  she 
knew  she  was  lying ;  the  angels  must  have  wept. 

M.  Pasquier  le  Breton,  although  he  was  amused  by 
her  French,  had  yet  been  deluded  by  its  haphazard 
fluency;  it  was  bad,  he  knew,  but  he  believed  it  to  be 
fairly  comprehensive. 

Therefore  he  read  on  and  on,  enjoying  the  beauties 
of  the  verse  and  the  little  exclamations  of  pleasure  that 
interrupted  him  occasionally  from  his  hearer. 

"Ah,  que  c'est  delicieux !"  she  would  murmur,  or  "Ah, 
mon  Dieu,"  or,  most  frequently  of  all,  "Ah  comme  c'est 
joli!" 

He  read  Raymond's  "Le  Faune,"  then  his  "Bruges," 
a  lovely  little  poem  holding  the  spirit  of  the  old  town 
in  its  four  stanzas;  he  read  Henri  de  Regnier's  "Ode- 
lette" — which  she  preferred. 

"If — it  is  just  possible,  madame,"  he  broke  off  once 
to  say,  "that  any  of  the  poetic  idioms  or  turns  of  phrase 
should  have  escaped  you  for  the  moment,  you  will  give 

46 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

me  the  pleasure  of  refreshing  your  memory,  will  you 
not?" 

"Oh,  oui,  monsieur.  But  I  have  spoken  French  all 
my  life."  She  was  not  offended,  but  she  seemed  a  little 
hurt,  and  he  hastened  to  assure  her  that  her  French 
was  wonderful.  Which  it  was. 

She  had  read  some  of  Mallarme's,  and  knew  Verlaine's 
"Chanson  d'Automne"  and  repeated  it  with  her  guest, 
peacocking  with  delight  at  her  knowledge. 

"Et  je  m'en  vais 
Au  vent  mauvais 
Qui  m'emporte 
De  ga,  de  la 
Pareil  a  la 
Feuille  morte." 

"It's  so  true,  isn't  it?"  she  murmured  softly. 

"Pardon,  madame?" 

"I  mean  life.    Life  is  so  sad,  so  lonely." 

It  was  one  of  the  harmless  little  poses  that  he  had 
observed  in  her,  and  he  was  shrewd  enough  to  realize 
that,  although  poses,  they  were  in  an  odd  way  sincere. 
Her  life,  he  could  see,  was  not  lonely,  and,  to  the  best 
of  his  belief,  it  was  not  sad.  Sad  women  do  not  dance 
four  nights  a  week. 

"You  mean,"  he  said  pob'tely,  "life  in  general." 

"Yes.  Things  never  last — except  the  things  we  wish 
would  pass  quickly !  And — the  poor  suffer  so." 

47 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  for  there  was  real  pity 
in  her  voice. 

"You  go  among  the  poor,  then,"  he  said,  respectfully. 
"I  did  not  know." 

Mrs.  Dorset  flushed.  "I — n-no,"  she  hesitated  and 
then  plunged  boldly  into  the  truth.  "No.  I  don't  go 
among  them.  They — they  don't  like  me,  somehow,  and 
I  never  know  what  to  say  to  babies.  The  poor  have 
so  many  babies " 

She  had  told  the  truth,  but  the  miniature  valor  of 
it  was  obscured  for  him  by  her  plaint  at  the  end. 

"You  do  not  love  children?"  he  asked,  his  mind  in 
the  room  at  Passy,  where  a  woman  who  had  not  walked 
for  eight  years  devoted  hours  to  teaching  and  caring 
for  the  poor  little  people  of  her  parish. 

Mrs.  Dorset  felt  that  something  had  happened  to  dull 
the  brightness  of  his  admiration  for  her. 

"Oh,  I  love  children,"  she  declared,  which  was  an 
untruth  told  in  perfect  good  faith.  "I  have  three  god- 
daughters !  Lady  Leonard  Vlairgowry's  boy  is  my  god- 
son, too." 

"You  have  no  children  of  your  own?" 

She  shook  her  head  with  dignity.  "No.  I  lost  a 
little  girl  when  I  was  first  married.  She  only  lived  a 
few  months." 

Pasquier  le  Breton,  after  a  pause,  took  up  his  book. 
"Shall  I— go  on?" 

48 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Oh,  yes,  please;  I  am  enjoying  it  immensely."  And 
because  of  the  child  who  was  dead  he  turned  the  pages 
until  he  came  to  Rodenbach's  "Beguinage  Flamand." 

There  is  in  it  nothing  about  children,  but  it  is  a  pure 
and  lovely  poem,  full  of  the  poetry  so  much  faultless 
verse  seems  to  lack. 

It  is  beautiful  to  have  windows  in  which  flowers  grow, 
compared  to  altars;  it  is  wonderful — more  wonderful 
to  a  French  Catholic  than  to  an  English  Protestant — 
to  hear  nuns  described  as  looking  into  Heaven  through 
the  wounds  of  the  Crucified;  it  is  a  lovely  thought 
that  the  prayers  of  His  people  are  the  only  thing  to 
console  God  in  His  melancholy  over  the  sins  of  the 
world. 

These  things,  and  others,  Georges  Rodenbach  says 
in  his  poem,  and  the  quiet  of  the  nuns,  their  gentle 
happiness,  comes  to  the  reader  like  late  afternoon  sun- 
shine, as  he  reads. 

Pasquier  le  Breton  was  moved  by  his  own  voice  as  it 
expressed  the  poet's  feelings.  Like  many  worldly  and 
even  cynical  Frenchmen,  there  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  a  certain  childish  faith  and  reverence  that  nothing 
could  ever  change.  It  is,  this  faith,  like  a  fine  garment 
that  is  taken  out  of  a  locked  chest  only  on  great  and 
sacred  occasions.  As  a  boy  he  had  worn  this  garment 
at  his  first  communion ;  as  a  man  at  his  mother's  death- 
bed; on  the  occasion  of  his  first  realizing  his  love  for 

49 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Anastasie-Claire  Samain ;  on  the  day  when  she  told  him 
that  she  loved  him. 

He  had  worn  it  on  the  day  he  saw  her  after  the  acci- 
dent that  crippled  her  for  life,  when  he  knew  what  her 
refusal  to  give  her  body  to  him  had  done  for  him,  in 
making  him  understand  the  supernal  value  of  her  gift 
to  him  of  her  whole  heart.  He  had  worn  it,  the  garment 
of  simple  faith,  on  these  occasions. 

And  because  he  had  kept  it,  often  unused  but  always 
unblemished,  the  man  had  never  lost  his  love  of  beau- 
tiful, noble  things.  Noble  verse  raised  him  for  the 
moment  to  a  height  in  which  the  peace  of  goodness 
seemed  the  best  thing  in  the  world.  His  bold  eyes 
softened,  his  voice  trembled. 

And  then  he  had  a  shock;  Mrs.  Dorset  yawned. 
Delicately,  prettily,  her  little  tongue  curled  like  a 
puppy's  and  as  pink  as  a  roseleaf,  her  teeth  gleaming — 
but  unmistakably,  she  yawned. 

As  he  walked  home  through  opal  evening  sunlight  that 
gleamed  beautifully  on  the  rain-soaked  town,  M.  Pas- 
quier  le  Breton  decided  that  he  must,  after  all,  not  go 
to  his  club  to  dine. 

He  would  stay  in  his  rooms  and  the  faithful  bigarreau 
would  make  him  an  omelette  baveuse  and  he  would  drink 
a  bottle  of  good  red  wine,  and  then  when  the  sun  had 
set  over  the  trees  in  the  square,  he  would  write  a  long, 
a  very  long  letter  to  Anastasie-Claire. 

50 


IX 


CAPTAIN  Hood  came  half  an  hour  late,  but  the 
interview  was  unsatisfactory  both  to  Mrs.  Dor- 
set and  to  him.  He  had  made  his  plan  and  he 
carried  it  out,  as  was  his  way,  but  he  was  an  honestly 
emotional  man  and  he  suffered  under  his  self-imposed 
restrictions. 

She,  on  her  side,  was  frightened.  She  had  known 
him  for  a  twelvemonth,  but  during  several  of  those 
months  she  had  been  at  St.  Moritz,  where  he  was  not, 
and  at  another  time  he  had  been  in  France,  where  he 
belonged  to  a  famous  polo  club.  So  they  were  still 
full  of  mystery,  each  to  the  other. 

And  she,  as  she  sat  in  the  oddly  upright  position  so 
characteristic  of  her,  chatting  airily  of  nothing,  and 
bent — such  was  her  instinctive  realization  of  what  was 
wisdom — on  outdoing  his  indifference  of  manner  by  her 
own,  was  conscious  of  an  odd  thing.  The  room,  with 
its  big  wood  fire,  was  warm,  but  her  hands  were  as  cold 
as  ice. 

She  had  always  enjoyed  the  nebulous  sensation  of 
danger  she  had  from  the  first  experienced  with  him,  and 

51 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

hitherto  she  had  been  able  to  tease  him  and  thus  to  keep 
the  scale  fairly  level. 

But  this  was  the  first  time,  partly  by  chance  and 
partly  by  alternate  maneuvering  on  both  their  parts, 
that  they  had  ever  been  really  alone,  and  she  was  fright- 
ened. 

It  alarmed  her  that  her  hands  should  be  cold. 

However,  nothing  happened,  and  after  an  uncomfort- 
able half  hour  he  left  without  anything  vital  having 
been  said. 

"You  will  remember  me  to  the  Baroness?"  she  said, 
as  they  shook  hands. 

He  smiled.  "With  pleasure.  And  you  will  no  doubt 
have  left  town  when  I  get  back,  so  I'll  say  good-bye 
until  October  or  November."  Eight  weeks  dismissed  as 
lightly  as  eight  hours  might  have  been. 

Hood  was  a  very  handsome  man  with,  on  his  charming 
face,  not  a  sign  of  the  life  he  led.  His  skin,  though 
sunburnt,  was  clear,  and  his  dark  eyes,  of  so  deep  a 
brown  as  to  appear  black,  held  a  look  of  the  most  ex- 
treme sweetness  and  gentleness. 

It  was  a  most  trustworthy  face,  and  the  signs  of 
weakness  about  the  mouth  were  faint  enough  to  be  not 
only  inoffensive  but  rather  charming. 

His  greatest  danger  to  women  lay  in  the  indefensible 
but  absolute  sincerity  of  his  emotional  moods.  He  not 
only  seemed  to,  but  could  and  did,  love  Clarissa  on  a 


Monday,  Amaryllis  on  the  Tuesday,  and  Chloe  on  the 
Wednesday.  He  was  not  an  insincere  man,  though  he 
was  radically  and  hopelessly  untruthful,  and  his  errant 
heart  was  as  soft  as  a  child's.  On  this  occasion  he 
was  more  in  love  than  he  knew,  and  his  overexpressive 
face  was  wan  and  ravaged,  as  he  said  good-bye — and 
nothing  but  good-bye. 

And  when  he  had  gone,  Amy  Dorset  knelt  by  the  fire 
and  tried,  before  going  to  dress,  to  warm  her  icy  hands. 


CLOUDESLEY  DORSET  was,  as  Lady  Barbara 
Questingham  had  told  old  Major  Marchington, 
a  dull  man.  The  word  dull,  applied  to  a  metal, 
by  no  means  signifies  that  anything  is  wrong  with  the 
metal;  it  does  not  even  mean  that  the  metal  is  severely 
scratched,  to  say  nothing  of  its  being  inferior  in  any 
way. 

Dull  means,  of  course,  simply  the  contrary  to  bright. 
But  applied  to  a  human  being  the  adjective  seems  to 
lose  its  simplicity,  and  assumes  a  charge  of  intrinsic 
inferiority.  To  call  a  man  dull  is  to  stamp  him  as 
stupid,  which  is  unfair. 

Dorset  was  not  stupid,  and  he  was  dull.  He  was  a 
big,  heavily  built  man  with  large  hands  and  feet  and  a 
stoop. 

His  thick  black  hair,  just  beginning,  at  his  forty-fifth 
year,  to  be  sprinkled  with  gray,  he  wore  rather  long, 
but  plastered  flat  to  his  well-shaped  head. 

His  small  dark-blue  eyes  were  short-sighted,  so  he 
wore  a  monocle.  He  had  a  close-cropped  dark  mus- 
tache, and  his  rather  thin  cheeks  were  seamed  with 

54 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

deep,  almost  perpendicular  lines  that  might  have  been 
dimples  in  his  youth,  and  which  even  now  softened  his 
expression  pleasantly  when  he  smiled,  which  he  did  not 
very  often. 

His  position  in  his  own  house  is  difficult  to  define. 
He  was  by  no  means  henpecked;  he  was  not  exactly 
unobtrusive,  he  was  not  shy;  to  his  few  friends  he  was 
not  even  particularly  reserved. 

His  terms  with  his  wife  were  perfectly  friendly,  his 
appearances  at  her  parties  perfectly  conventional.  But 
to  Lawrence  Croxley,  who  happened  to  be  one  of  his 
friends,  he  seemed  to  regard  Amy  as  he  regarded  a  very 
fine  portrait  of  her  painted  some  years  before  by  Sar- 
gent ;  he  admired  and  valued  her,  but  did  not  ever  seek 
in  her  the  companion  he  would  have  failed  to  find  had 
he  sought. 

The  house  in  Park  Lane  was  her  home,  and  it  was  his 
home,  but  Lawrence  could  not  regard  it  as  their  home. 

One  evening,  a  few  days  after  the  occasion  on  which 
she  had  read  Amy's  letters,  Miss  Croxley  dined  alone 
with  Dorset. 

Amy  is  dining  with  some  people  I  don't  like  [his  note 
had  told  her],  and  as  they  don't  like  me  either  I  have  "gone 
to  the  country."  Will  you  dine  with  me,  my  dear? 

They  dined  very  comfortably  in  the  big,  oak-paneled 
room  looking  over  the  little  garden,  now  full  of  flowers. 

55 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Dorset  was  devoted  to  flowers  and  spent  a  good  deal 
of  money  on  this  small  inclosure,  and  Miss  Croxley, 
before  they  sat  down  to  dinner,  was  taken  down  the 
flight  of  outside  steps  from  the  drawing-room  to  inspect 
the  roses. 

It  was  a  clear  evening,  the  trees  in  the  park  showing 
to  their  full  advantage  against  a  pale  gold  sky. 

"It  is  somehow  a  luxurious  and  delightful  thing," 
Lawrence  said,  tucking  into  her  belt  a  large  white  rose 
he  had  given  her,  "to  stand  here  in  a  rose-garden  and 
hear  the  buses  and  taxis  roaring  by  just  this  other  side 
of  that  wall." 

"Is  it,  Lawrence?"    He  eyed  her  kindly. 

"Yes.  This  little  garden  seems  far  more  the  rich 
man's  than  does  the  biggest  I  have  ever  seen — in  the 
country !" 

Dorset  nodded.  "I  know  what  you  mean.  Yet  it  is 
one  of  the  duties  of  social  ostentation  to  possess  a  large 
garden  in  the  country." 

"How,  by  the  way,  is  Maiden  Aqualate?" 

"Very  well,  but  I  miss  it.  I  wish  I  could  be  more 
there,  Lawrence." 

"So  do  I,  Clow.  It  is  a  lovely  place.  How  are  the 
flowers  ?" 

"MacPhail  has  got  two  more  first  prizes;  one  for 
fuchsias.  Lawrence,  upon  my  word,  I  believe  they  are 

the  best  fuchsias  ever  grown  so  far  north " 

56 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Still  talking  of  flowers  they  mounted  the  ugly,  con- 
venient iron  staircase,  and,  standing  at  its  top,  watched 
for  a  while  the  picture  spread  before  them. 

The  walls  of  the  garden  were  of  white  stone,  yellowed 
and  begrimed  into  a  beautiful  tone  that  Pasquier  le 
Breton  called  "couleur  de  Londres." 

A  beautiful  creeper  spread  over  the  wall  delicate 
green  tentacles  starred  with  magenta  flowers. 

The  little  inclosure  was  divided  into  four  square  rose- 
beds  by  a  broad  cross  of  old  flagstones,  between  which 
certain  humble  flowers  were  "encouraged"  by  Dorset. 
And  the  roses  were  all  a-blow,  so  lovely  in  their  luxuri- 
ance that  one  never  thought  of  their  expensiveness  and 
wondered  only  at  their  beauty. 

In  the  middle  of  the  garden  was  a  sun  dial,  and  at  the 
foot  of  the  wall  separating  the  roses  from  the  buses, 
a  little  fountain  plashed. 

Lawrence  Croxley's  hollow  dark  eyes  gazed  intently 
from  behind  her  lorgnon,  first  at  the  garden,  then  over 
the  wall  into  Park  Lane.  Buses  rumbled  by,  rocking  in 
their  odd,  clumsy  dignity ;  taxis  crept  under  their  bows 
like  sampans  among  battleships,  and  splendid  private 
cars,  as  big  as  many  a  room  in  which  a  whole  family 
lives,  pursued  their  aristocratic  ways  laden  with  ladies 
in  evening  kit  and  their  attendant,  unornamental  men- 
kind. 

Beyond  them  people  walked  slowly  for  the  most  part, 

57 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

for  the  most  part  enjoying  the  exquisite  ending  to  the 
exquisite  day. 

"I  wonder,"  Miss  Croxley  said  thoughtfully  after  a 
long  pause,  "that  the  poor  aren't  more  bitter  against 
the  rich." 

He  did  not  answer,  and  she  insisted,  "Don't  you?" 

"N-no."  It  was  part  of  the  man's  dullness  that  he 
was  slow  in  speaking. 

She,  who  was  quick  in  word  as  in  thought,  shrugged 
her  bony  shoulders  impatiently. 

"Clow — why  don't  you  wonder?" 

"Because — a  glass  can  only  hold  a  certain  amount  of 
liquid "  He  broke  off,  frowning  at  his  own  in- 
articulateness. 

"Well,  go  on,"  she  urged. 

"And  whether  it's  full  of  wine  or  of  water,  it  can 
only  be  just  full  to  its  brim " 

She  sighed.  "Oh,  I  see.  And  the  rich  man's  the 
wine-glass,  and  the  poor  man's — a  nasty  tin  mug — is 
that  it?  Your  argument's  bad.  Wine  and  water  are 
yery  different  things." 

"Different  in  quality.  I  mean  that — in  his  tin-mug 
life,  the  poor  man  gets  all  that  the  rich  one  does." 

She  glanced  at  him  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 
"Go  on,  Clow,"  she  said  gently. 

"Oh,  I  was  only  being  banal.  It's  not  worth  ex- 
plaining." 

58 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Please." 

"Well  then,  dear,  love  and  hate,  and  birth  and  death 
— the  poor  man  has  'em,  and — ice  have  no  more." 

His  plain,  deeply  lined  face  was  flushed,  and  he  ended 
his  little  speech  with  a  harsh  laugh. 

"Romantic  this  evening,  am  I  not?"  he  added,  going 
on  quickly.  "Immenham  will  apply  for  the  Chilterns  if 
we  don't  go  and  dine." 

Immenham,  who  was  only  not  like  a  bishop,  as  the 
saying  goes,  because  he  was  like  nothing  but  the  perfect 
butler  he  was,  admired  Miss  Croxley,  and  in  a  silent, 
respectful  manner  he  had  long  since  made  this  fact 
known  to  her. 

Naturally  she  regarded  his  liking  as  appreciation, 
and  as  naturally  she  returned  it. 

The  dinner  was  perfect,  and,  without  a  word  having 
been  spoken  on  the  subject,  the  table  was  much  more 
simply  arranged  than  it  would  have  been  had  Mrs.  Dor- 
set dined  at  home. 

The  little  lady  liked  table  decorations,  and  possessed 
four  little  golden  dishes  that  she  liked  to  have  arranged 
before  her  laden  with  deviled  almonds,  chocolates, 
scraps  of  crystallized  ginger,  and  peppermint  fon- 
dants. 

Now,  these  little  golden  dishes  Cloudesley  Dorset  de- 
tested. They  were  not  on  the  table  tonight.  Nothing 
was  on  the  table  except  things  strictly  necessary  to  the 

59 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

serving  of  a  civilized  meal,  and  even  these  things  were 
of  the  simplest  kind. 

A  bunch  of  pink  and  white  roses  stood  in  a  glass  bowl 
in  the  middle  of  the  plain  cloth,  and  there  were  no 
shades  on  the  wax  candles. 

While  the  two  friends  were  eating  their  fish  the  door 
opened  and  Mrs.  Dorset,  wrapped  in  a  filmy  white  and 
silver  cloak,  came  in. 

"Oh,  you  poor  dears,"  she  cried.  "What  a  horrid 
table.  It  is  too  bad  of  Immenham." 

"You  forget  that  I  like  the  table  plain,  Amy,"  Dorset 
said,  unsmilingly. 

"And  so  do  I,  dear,"  put  in  Miss  Croxley.  "Is  that 
a  new  frock,  you  extravagant  quean?" 

"No — Oh,  no ;  I've  worn  it  twice  before " 

At  Lawrence's  shout  of  laughter,  the  little  lady 
stared  in  unfeigned  surprise.  "What's  the  joke?  Well, 
I  must  be  off — and  tell  my  fib  about  Clow's  being  in  the 
country — good-bye." 

Cloudesley  Dorset  followed  his  beautiful  wife  down 
the  iron  steps  to  the  green  garden  door  and  stood  there 
until  the  great  dark-blue  motor  car  had  borne  her 
away. 

A  walnut  shell  would,  he  thought,  have  done  nearly 
as  well.  He  wondered  why  she,  probably  the  tiniest 
woman  in  London,  should  have  chosen  what  was  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  largest  cars. 

60 


As  he  shot  the  bolt  in  the  door,  he  paused  for  a 
moment,  looking  up  at  the  open  window  of  the  dining- 
room  ;  through  the  curtains  he  could  just  see  Lawrence 
Croxley's  profile. 

When  she  had  reached  her  lodgings,  at  about  eleven 
o'clock,  Miss  Croxley  sat  down  by  her  open  window  to 
think. 

Like  many  people  who  live  much  alone,  she  had  the 
habit  of  talking  to  herself ;  and  to  this  habit  she  added 
a  more  peculiarly  personal  one:  that  of  expressing  her 
thoughts  in  dialog  form. 

After  a  few  minutes  concentrated  silence  she  began: 

Clow:    "Yes,  she  is  prettier  than  ever." 

Lawrence:  "You  think  she's  perfectly  happy, 
Clow?" 

Clow:    "She  seems  quite  contented." 

Lawrence:    "I  said  happy." 

Clow:  "I  shouldn't  suppose  her  to  be  perfectly 
happy.  Why  should  she  be?  No  one  else  is." 

Lawrence  (maudlin  as  usual  about  Amy)  :  "I  always 
feel  that  she  ought  to  be.  She's  so  little !" 

Clow  (densely)  :  "I  don't  see  what  her  size  has  to  do 
with  it." 

"There !  that's  the  first  of  it.  Then  we  talked  about 
the  inevitable  Lloyd-George — I  wonder  why  the  London 
Press  has  conferred  the  Order  of  the  Hyphen  on  him? 
And  about  Ascot,  and  about  that  book,  what  was  its 

61 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

name — 'The  Bower  of  Delight' — and  then  I  began 
again.  Let  me  see — Oh,  yes." 

Lawrence'  "Clow,  why  don't  you  take  her  away  for 
a  bit — to  Maiden  Aqualate?" 

Clow  (idiotically — he  is  a  thick-skull  sometimes!): 
"Take  whom  away?" 

Lawrence :     "Amy." 

Clow:  "Why  on  earth  should  I  take  her  to  Maiden 
Aqualate  when  she  is  bored  to  tears,  away  from  London 
which  she  loves  ?" 

"And  then,"  the  lonely  lady  at  the  window  went  on, 
dropping  the  dialog  form  of  thought,  "then  I  put  it 
to  him  bluntly.  Did  he  not  think,  I  said,  that  Tannie 
was  getting  to  be  too  fond  of  London?  I  said  London, 
and  I  meant  London.  He  can't  have  thought  I  meant 
anyone  in  particular !  And  yet  he  said — what  were  the 
exact  words?  'Oh,  yes,'  he  said,  'you  mean  Hood?'  " 

For  a  few  minutes  she  was  silent,  her  thoughts  min- 
gling with  the  sounds  of  the  voices  of  the  passers-by  in 
the  street  below. 

It  was  a  dark  night,  and  the  lights  in  the  open  win- 
dows opposite  were  the  only  stars. 

"  'You  mean  Hood.'  I  wonder  if  it  would  have  been 
better  if  I  had  pretended  to  be  surprised  ?  At  all  events, 
I  didn't.  I — Oh,  dear  me,  I  just  said,  'Clow !'  Dear  old 
Clow,  I  was  so  surprised  at  him.  To  think  that  he  has 
seen  it  all  the  time,  and  never  said  a  word.  Of  course, 

62 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

if  he  doesn't  care — but  he  must  care,  in  a  way,  even 
though  he  doesn't  love  her.  Suppose  she  were  to — but 
she  never  would.  After  all,  Tannie  is  a  cold  little 
thing.  I  love  her,  but  she  is  rather  inhuman.  And  I 
suppose  that  is  what  makes  Clow  so  calm  about  it. 
Poor  dears,  both  of  them." 

After  a  pause,  Miss  Croxley  rose,  drew  down  her 
blind,  and  began  to  prepare  for  bed. 

"I  do  wish,"  was  her  last  remark  to  herself  as  she 
switched  off  the  light,  "I  do  wish  Tannie  hadn't  married 
poor  old  Clow.  He  isn't  the  man  she  could  possibly 
love,  and  young  Ridgway  had  great  charm" — then, 
remembering  that  the  young  Ridgway  of  Amy  Dorset's 
youth  was  now  in  his  middle  age  as  penniless  as  he  had 
been  then,  she  was  seized  with  laughter  so  audible  as 
seriously  to  annoy  an  old  lady  who,  together  with  a 
pug-dog,  dwelt  in  the  next  room. 


XI 


CAPTAIN  HOOD  did  not  go  to  Austria,  and,  as 
things  turned  out,  his  sister's  son  was  a  year 
old  when  he  had  the  honor  of  making  the  ac- 
quaintance of  his  attractive  uncle. 

Hood  was  now  quite  sure  why  he  did  not  go;  he 
had  fully  intended  to  do  so,  not,  as  he  told  Mrs.  Dorset, 
because  he  felt  it  necessary  to  flee  from  the  danger  of 
her  charms,  but  because  he  knew,  with  the  wonderful 
and  dreadful  cunning  of  men  of  his  type,  that  flight 
would  be  to  her  the  greatest  lure. 

It  was  not  anything  she  said  at  the  unsatisfactory 
interview  in  the  library  in  Park  Lane ;  she  had  said,  he 
remembered,  remarkably  little. 

It  was  more  an  atmosphere  that  hung  about  her,  an 
atmosphere  less  assured,  more  wavering  than  her  usual 
one.  She  seemed,  somehow,  less  able  to  defend  herself, 
more  influenced  by  him. 

Moreover,  she  had  not  chaffed  him,  and  he  knew  that 
this  meant  much.  So  he  stayed  on  in  town. 

A  few  days  after  their  talk  they  met  in  the  Park  as 
she  was  taking  her  afternoon  drive. 

64 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

He  bowed  gayly,  but  did  not  attempt  to  speak  to 
her,  in  spite  of  the  inviting  accident  of  her  motor  being 
for  the  moment  held  up  by  the  traffic. 

She  felt  the  blood  rush  to  her  face ;  she  had  believed 
him  to  be  in  Austria  by  that  time ;  indeed  she  had  men- 
tally followed  him  on  his  supposed  way,  Dover — Calais 
— Paris,  a  day  there  (no  doubt  passed  in  brilliantly  fas- 
cinating, though  reprehensible,  society!),  and  then  the 
long  night  in  the  Vienna  Express.  Vienna  she  did  not 
know,  so  it  was  to  her  a  dream-city  full  of  handsome, 
full-busted  women,  corseted  gray-blue  officers,  good 
food,  and  excellent  man  milliners.  Here,  no  doubt,  she 
had  thought,  he  would  stay  for  a  day  or  two,  and  then 
— a  rough  journey  to  his  sister's  castle  in  the  moun- 
tains. The  castle,  in  her  imagination,  was  an  ancient 
and  buttressed  affair  with  broad  ramparts  and  winding 
staircases.  In  reality  it  was  a  violently  ornate  modern 
house  full  of  luxury,  but  justified  in  calling  itself  a 
castle  only  by  its  vast  size. 

A  few  minutes  before  meeting  Hood,  Mrs.  Dorset  had 
been  dreaming  about  this  aristocratic  fastness,  peopling 
it  with  large,  beautiful  ladies,  not  one  of  whom  would 
make  even  the  faintest  effort  to  withstand  the  charms  of 
the  young  Englishman.  And — there  he  was  walking 
with  Toby  Elliott  and  obviously  in  the  best  of  health 
and  spirits. 

There  was  a  big  ball  that  night  and  the  beautiful 

65 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Mrs.  Dorset  was,  of  course,  there.  She  was  looking  her 
loveliest,  but  she  complained  of  a  headache  and  left 
early  after  wasting,  as  some  of  the  dancing  men  thought, 
an  houa*  of  valuable  time  in  talking  to  a  stupid  old  man 
with  a  long  mustache. 

The  poison  of  the  dancing  men  was  very  much  old 
Major  Marchington's  meat. 

He  was  greatly  pleased  when  the  little  lady  asked  him 
to  take  her  to  a  cool  place  for  a  rest. 

"One  gets  sick  of  dancing  sometimes,"  she  plained 
in  her  soft  voice,  making  with  her  long  lashes  the  play 
that  had  become  second  nature  to  them. 

"You  dance  so  exquisitely,"  he  returned,  pointing  his 
compliment  with  a  bow,  "I  should  have  thought  you 
would  never  tire  of  it.  Fishes  never  seem  to  weary  of 
swimming." 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"What  a  charming  thing  to  say !" 

"It  is  a  true  thing;  I  have  spent  many  a  happy  mo- 
ment in  the  last  fortnight,  watching  you  dance.  Par- 
ticularly," he  added,  "with  Captain — what's-his-name 
—Wood?  No,  no,  Hood." 

She  was  looking  away  from  him,  but  he  saw  her  little 
ear  turn  scarlet,  and  there  was  a  pause  which  he  broke. 

"He's  not  here  tonight,  I  think?" 

"No,  I  believe  he  isn't.  At  least,"  and  her  futile  air  of 
indifference  gave  the  old  man,  in  spite  of  his  not  alto- 

66 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

gether  unmalicious  curiosity,  a  pang  of  pity,  "at  least 
I  haven't  seen  him !" 

They  were  sitting  on  a  little  balcony,  and  there  was 
between  them  and  the  open  ballroom  door  a  tall  screen 
of  trellis-work  over  which  were  trained  Dorothy  Per- 
kins roses.  The  old  man  and  the  woman,  whom  for 
some  reason  he  could  not  help  regarding  almost  as  a 
child,  were  practically  alone. 

She  was  tired  because  she  was  sad,  and  for  a  moment 
she  allowed  herself  to  be  silent  as  she  looked  out  over 
the  trees  in  the  square  at  the  crescent  moon. 

Marchington,  in  his  turn,  watched  her.  He  liked 
and  admired  her,  but,  after  all,  he  thought,  he  was 
taking  Lady  Barbara  to  supper  and  he  could  score  off 
his  old  friend  splendidly  if  he  could  get  Mrs.  Dorset 
to  discuss  Hood. 

"I'm  a  selfish  old  fellow,"  he  began  presently,  "but  I 
wish  Captain  Hood  would  come." 

"Why?" 

In  a  moment  she  had  assumed  the  odd  little  air  of 
languor  that  he  had  perceived  to  be  her  idea  of  a  cor- 
rect society  manner  and  which,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
she  had  half-unconsciously  modeled  on  that  of  a  six-foot 
duchess. 

"Why?  Because  it  gives  me  very  keen  pleasure  to 
see  you  dance  with  him." 

"Thanks  for  the  compliment !  But  you  ought  to  see 

67 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

him  waltz  with  Miss  Clark,  the  red-haired  American  girl. 
She  is  wonderful,  and  besides,"  she  added,  gravely  in- 
different and  impartial,  "she  is  nearer  his  height.  I  am 
really  too  small  to  dance  with  such  tall  men!" 

"Nonsense.  By  the  way,  tell  me  about  him,  will 
you?  He  interests  me." 

So  she  told  him  all  she  knew,  lulled  into  suspicionless- 
ness  by  his  old-gentlemanly  and  frank  demeanor. 

"Oh,  there's  not  much  to  tell.  He's  one  of  the  Bag- 
worthy  Hoods,  you  know,  and  his  mother  was  a  daugh- 
ter of  Lord  Esdaile's.  He's  a  guardsman,  of  course — 
a  charming  man  in  his  way,  but  not  at  all  clever.  You 
know  what  guardsmen  are." 

"Of  course!" 

"He  never  reads,  I  mean,  and  doesn't  care  for  good 
music — he  says  quite  frankly,"  she  added,  laughing, 
"that  musical  comedy  is  his  line!" 

"I  see.  He's  a  dashed  good-looking  fellow — I  sup- 
pose he's  a  great  pet  with  the  ladies,  eh?  That  sort  of 
thing?" 

Amy  Dorset  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Of  course, 
that  goes  without  saying,  doesn't  it?" 

"It  does.  But  on  the  whole,"  he  persisted,  "he's  a 
good  fellow,  and  you  like  him." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  like  him  immensely."  Her  air  of  detached 
friendship  whetted  the  old  man's  appetite  for  more  in- 
formation, but  a  glance  at  her  bravely  held  little  head 

68 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

stayed  him.  She  looked  not  only  unhappy,  he  saw,  but 
in  a  way  indefinably  pitiful,  puzzled. 

For  a  minute  they  were  both  silent,  and  then,  as  a 
taxi  rushed  up  to  the  house  and  stopped  with  a  noise 
such  as  one  might  imagine  to  resemble  that  made  by  ihe 
gates  of  Hell,  the  beautiful  woman  rose  suddenly  and, 
forgetting  her  companion,  leaned  well  over  the  parapet 
and  looked  down. 

"It's  Pasquier  le  Breton,"  she  said,  her  lips  drawn 
straight  over  her  teeth.  "Such  a  delightful  man.  I — I 
think  I  must  go  back  to  the  ballroom  now,  Major — 
Major  Markham." 


xn 

July  W 
MON  ADOREE, 

I  seek  from  your  great  wise  heart,  a  counsel.  A  woman, 
I  hear  you  say  gently  but  with  the  sadness  I  also  so  well 
remember.  Know,  however,  that  in  this  matter  I  am  blame- 
less. I  am  more  than  blameless.  She  is  one  of  the  loveliest 
creatures  the  mind  of  the  good  God  has  ever  been  able  to 
conceive,  and — I  am  scatheless.  Adamant  I  have  stood  be- 
fore her,  pure  as  ice  in  my  heart.  Sexless  as  an  hour-old 
she-infant  I  have  kissed  her  hands.  Listen,  she  is,  as  I 
have  said,  most  beautiful.  She  is  about  eight-and-twenty, 
she  looks  twenty  at  night,  and  twenty- four  by  sunlight.  She 
is  married  and  of  excellent  position. 

The  husband  is  a  silent,  slow-witted  being,  quite  unworthy 
of  being  the  husband  of  such  a  woman ;  a  slow,  uninterest- 
ing man  whom  one  sees  but  rarely,  and  never  regrets.  They 
live  in  a  large  house  in  Park  Lane,  the  street  of  millionaires, 
to  which  enviable  class  they  belong.  There  are  no  children, 
though  they  lost  one  years  ago.  Enfin,  she  is  the  lady  of 
whom  I  have  told  you,  who  speaks  the  amazing  French ! 

As  to  morals,  I  hear  on  all  sides,  une  beguine.  And  this, 
you  must  note,  in  the  odd  English  way  which  is  perfectly 
consistent  with  a  series  of  what  they  call  here  "desperate 
flirtations."  Since  you  and  our  good  Henri  were  here,  Lon- 
don has  changed.  With  the  demise  of  the  excellent  Queen 
Victoria  there  was  a  regrettable  change  of  morals  in  so- 
ciety. King  Edward,  genial  man,  was  not  so  strict  as  his 

70 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

lamented  parent,  and  he  of  course  was  the  bell-wether  of 
that  delightful  flock,  London  society. 

King  George  and  his  virtuous  queen  have,  as  you  know, 
once  more  changed  the  tone  of  the  court,  and  society  is  in 
process  of  reverting  to  the  manners,  even  if  not  altogether, 
dear  friend,  to  the  customs  of  the  reign  of  the  Great  White 
Queen,  as  I  am  informed  she  was  known  to  certain  of  her 
dark-skinned  subjects. 

One  is  virtuous — ah,  but  virtuous — these  days,  and  many 
ladies,  once  gay  as  well  as  great,  are  creeping  back  into 
royal  favor  by  the  stony  ways  of  devotion  to  charity.  You 
will  understand. 

The  lady  of  whom  I  write,  then,  is  well  regarded.  She 
leads  the  most  blameless,  if  the  most  vapid,  of  lives.  Many 
men  have  loved  her,  but  she  has  loved  no  one.  She  is  an 
adept  in  the  more  Gallic  than  British  art  of  when  to 
stop. 

I,  hitherto,  have  regarded  her  less  as  a  woman  than  as  a 
kind  of  Mayfair  Undine,  and  unlike  the  lady  described  by 
G.  Shakespeare,  she  has,  in  spite  of  a  long  list  of  obvious 
adorers,  escaped  calumny. 

And  now — I  am  frightened  for  her. 

You,  dear  friend,  in  your  cloistral  life,  are  the  only 
person  of  whom  I  can  ask  advice  in  this  most  worldly 
crisis. 

The  man  about  whom  you  are  wondering,  is  an  eater  of 
hearts  of  the  most  pronounced  type.  His  victims  are  legion 
and  well  known  to  everybody,  though  to  do  him  justice  that 
is  less  his  fault  than  theirs. 

The  Englishwoman  in  love  has  infinitely  less  reason  and 
discretion  than  the  Frenchwoman  in  that  happy  condition. 
There  have  been  scandals  innumerable  about  one  young  man, 
and  on  two  occasions  he  has  with  much  dignity  sustained 
the  difficult  role  of  corespondent,  and  these  difficulties  are 

71 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

doubled,  you  will  gather,  when  the  gentleman  has  no  inten- 
tion of  marrying  the  lady. 

Therefore,  as  Captain  H.  has  twice  been  able  to  carry 
off  this  painful  situation  with  success,  we  must  concede  to 
him  a  certain  cleverness.  The  crux  is  this: 

So  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  inform  myself,  he  has  never 
up  to  this  time  really  loved.  He  has  always  been  in  love — 
indeed,  he  is  credited  with  the  unusual  power  of  being  in 
love  with  several  women  at  the  same  time — but  never  before 
has  he  loved.  And  it  is,  of  course,  Madame  Tanagra  whom 
he  now  adores. 

That  he  adores  her  is  obvious.  We  are  now  the  twentieth 
July  and  up  to  the  fourteenth  there  was  only  a  little  chat- 
ter, and  that  exclusively  about  him.  Since  the  fourteenth 
this  has  changed,  tongues  are  beginning  to  wag  about  her 
as  well.  It  was  a  yachting  trip  that  did  it. 

A  friend  of  Mrs.  D.'s  and  of  mine  sprained  her  ankle, 
and  decided  to  escape  from  the  great  heat  by  taking  a  run 
to  Scotland  on  her  yacht. 

Captain  H.  being  her  brother,  naturally  went  when  he 
was  asked,  and  my  poor,  silly  little  Tanagra  went  as  well. 
I  was  there  because  I  am  suspected  of  being  the  slave  of  the 
lady  of  the  sprained  ankle.  She  is  a  kind  soul,  and  a  good 
musician,  but  she  is  of  the  school  of  old  young  women  of 
whom  we  are  happily  spared  many  at  home.  Sixty,  a  mas- 
saged and  painted  face,  a  saffron  wig,  and  obviously  won- 
derful stays.  She  has  no  designs  on  me,  and  when  we  are 
alone  we  discuss  music  and  poetry,  and  other  things  that 
matter,  but  in  public  I  am  what  the  lower  classes — isn't  it  a 
horrid  way  to  describe  "the  people"? — call  "her  best  boy." 

This  to  explain  my  miserable  presence  on  the  Seagull 
for  five  days. 

We  were  in  all  ten  souls,  including  the  daughter  of  my 
charmer,  and  the  daughter's  baby — and  much  was  the  mirth 

72 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

over  Vi's  being  a  grandmother.  Simulated  mirth,  designed 
to  flatter,  for  what  could  be  more  natural? 

However,  your  charitable  liking  for  my  diffuseness  is 
leading  me  astray  and  I  lose  myself. 

The  facts,  bald  and  plain,  are  these :  Captain  H.,  who  is, 
so  far  as  women  are  concerned,  a  bad  man,  is  violently  in 
love  with  Madame  D.,  and  she,  who  is,  though  uneducated 
and  in  many  ways  a  stupid  little  being,  as  innocent  as  a 
child,  is  violently  in  love  with  him.  The  husband,  whom 
no  one  seems  to  know  except  a  horrible  girl  (they  are  girls 
up  to  eighty,  if  unmarried)  named  Croxley,  who  grinds  her 
teeth  with  rage  when  she  beholds  my  unoffensive  little  per- 
son, goes  nowhere  with  his  wife.  He  makes  no  attempt  to 
protect  her  from  the  attacks  to  which  her  remarkable  beauty 
lay  her  open;  she  has  no  father,  no  mother,  no  child. 

And  the  odd  thing  is  that  I,  I,  the  wicked  Frenchman, 
am  the  only  one  who  seems  to  see  in  the  affair  anything 
more  than  occasion  for  a  tolerant  laugh  or  a  malicious  sneer. 

You  will  see  the  tragedy,  my  beloved  saint. 

My  poor  little  Undine  has  awakened,  and  I  fear  she  is 
finding  her  little  stunted  soul  only  to  lose  it.  The  man,  as 
I  analyze  him,  is,  while  in  every  way  charming,  and  in 
many  ways  a  good  fellow — for  all  men  seem  to  like  him — 
is  not  the  man  to  carry  on  successfully  a  great  love  affair. 
He  has  done  what  you  once  told  me — unjustifiably,  as  you 
will  admit  events  to  have  proved ! — that  I  had  done.  He  has 
wasted  his  substance,  the  substance  of  his  heart,  thrown 
away  in  useless  shreds  and  tatters  so  much  of  the  fabric 
that  there  now  remains  nothing  out  of  which  to  make  the 
great  warm  cloak  of  a  real  love.  He  will  love  her  for 
awhile  and  then — he  will  love  someone  else.  And  she? 

She,  who  has  never  suffered  even  little  things,  must  then 
suffer  the  worst  agony  of  all — the  great  disillusion. 

She  is  piteous ;  she  has  changed  from  the  rather  artificial 

73 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

•woman  of  the  world,  full  of  potty,  silly  little  poses,  and 
airs,  to  what  she  should  have  been  years  ago,  had  she  loved 
then.  She  has  become  timorous,  hesitating,  bold,  sad  and 
gay.  It  is  a  belated  girlhood  that  has  come  to  her,  a  too 
late  young  love. 

It  makes  tears  come  to  my  eyes  to  contemplate  her. 

Tonight  she  and  he — in  company  with  several  others,  of 
course — do  me  the  honor  of  dining  with  me  at  the  Ritz. 

And — it  is  now  time  for  me  to  dress — I  felt  I  could  face 
them  better  if  I  had  told  you  about  it.  Dearest  of  friends, 
best  and  wisest  of  women,  advise  me.  Here,  in  England,  no 
one  interferes.  Nothing  is  anyone  else's  business.  Even 
now,  in  the  reign  of  King  George  and  Queen  Mary,  a  dread- 
ful, inhuman  tolerance  holds  sway  over  people.  And  toler- 
ance can  be  the  crudest  thing  in  the  world. 

I,  the  reprobate  Frenchman,  I  wish  to  help! 

Write  and  tell  me,  out  of  your  white  wisdom,  what  to  do. 

I  do  not  mind  "interfering."  I  have  no  horror  of  being 
snubbed.  I  see  danger  to  an  unarmed  soul,  and  I  must  warn 
that  soul. 

Tell  me  how ! 

Thy 

JULES. 


xni 

AT  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  July  twenty- 
fourth  Cloudesley  Dorset  went  up  to  his  wife's 
door,  and,  after  a  second's  hesitation,  knocked. 

She  was  not  in  bed — not  for  her  the  delicious  but 
presumably  unhygienic  trick  of  lying  late  in  that  pleas- 
ant place.  The  room,  the  bed-clothes  thrown  back,  the 
windows  wide  open,  was  empty. 

"May  I  come  in,  Amy?" 

The  big  man  stood  at  the  dressing-room  door,  which 
was  ajar,  and  spoke  without  looking  in. 

"Y-yes — Oh,  yes,  come  in." 

Her  surprise  was  as  audible  in  her  voice  as  it  was 
visible  in  her  eyes.  "Is  anything  wrong?" 

He  neither  smiled  at  nor  resented  the  question.  Her 
astonishment  at  his  appearance  in  her  rooms  at  that 
hour  did  not  strike  him  as  in  any  way  remarkable. 

"No,"  he  answered  with  his  usual  gravity,  "I  want  to 
talk  something  over  with  you,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Of  course  I  don't  mind.  And  you  won't  mind  if  I 
go  on  dressing."  She  had  had  her  bath  long  ago,  he 
knew,  and  her  hair  was  dressed. 

75 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

As  he  sat  down  she  slipped  off  her  yellow  dressing- 
gown,  which  lay  like  a  pool  of  sunshine  on  the  marble 
floor,  and  showed  herself  in  a  short  petticoat,  and  black 
stockings  and  shoes. 

Taking  from  a  glass  table  a  little  crystal  box  filled 
with  a  thick  black  liquid  and  a  tiny  brush,  she  went  to 
the  cheval  glass  and  proceeded  skillfully  to  make  up  her 
eyes. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  said,  and  she  turned. 

"Why?" 

He  laughed  awkwardly.  "Nothing.  Go  on.  I — I 
hadn't  seen  you  with  light  lashes  for  a  long  time,  that's 
all " 

"Ah,  yes !  I  always  feel  the  Bon  Dieu  might  have 
'done  the  blacking  and  saved  me  the  trouble,  how- 


ever  

For  a  moment  she  worked  deftly,  dipping  the  brush 
into  the  black  stuff,  and  brushing  the  long,  curved 
lashes  with  a  skillful  hand.  Then,  as  he  did  not  speak, 
she  pivoted  on  her  absurdly  high  heels. 

"Eh  bien — what  did  you  want  to  say?"  she  asked, 
kindly  enough. 

"I  saw  Lawrence  yesterday,  and — she  thinks  you 
don't  look  well." 

Her  stare,  while  droll,  one  eye  being  furnished  with 
heavy  black  fringes,  the  other  with  pale  gold  ones,  was 

unaffected.    "Not  well!    I " 

76 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Turning  to  the  glass,  she  peered  anxiously  at  her  still 
unpainted  face. 

"It's  true — I  look  yellow,"  she  declared  in  dejection. 

"Yellow!" 

Dorset  pulled  at  his  mustache,  his  face  unrelieved  by 
either  sympathy  or  amusement. 

"She  didn't  mean  you  didn't  look  pretty,"  he  ex- 
plained. "She  meant  you  looked  ill." 

"Oh,  is  that  all !  You  did  give  me  a  fright,  Cloudes- 
ley." 

Her  relief  was  touching  and  comic  at  the  same  time, 
but  still  his  heavy  face,  a  face  which  was  going,  as  he 
grew  older,  to  be  with  its  deep  lines  and  loose  throat 
something  of  the  bloodhound  type,  did  not  change. 

"She  says  you  ought  to  go  to  the  country,  Amy." 

Amy  laughed  gayly,  and  worked  at  her  other  eye. 
When  it  was  finished  to  her  liking,  she  sat  down  at  the 
dressing-table  and  rubbed  some  white  cream  into  her 
face. 

"The  country,"  she  repeated  in  deep  scorn ;  "as  if  the 
country  ever  agreed  with  me !  Lawrence  is  a  goose." 

"But  you  don't  look  well,"  he  persisted,  mildly,  kind 
if  not  particularly  interested,  "and  it's  very  hot.  Why 
not  run  down  to  Maiden  Aqualate  for  a  week?  Law- 
rence would  come  too,  if  you  asked  her,  I'm  sure  she 
would." 

His  wife  dabbed  some  faintly  pink  cotton  wool  over 

77 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

her  cheeks,  and  then  dried  it  on  a  little  lace-edged  hand- 
kerchief. "No  doubt  she  would.  She  likes  the  country 
and  cows  and  crops  and  mud  and  dust  and  gardens  and 
dogs  and — and  trees,  and  dew,  and " 

"Maiden  Aqualate  isn't  exactly  a  cottage,"  he  said, 
with  his  impersonal  gentleness.  "You  can't  complain  of 
discomfort  there." 

"Of  course  it  isn't  a  cottage,  Clow.  It's  a  very  beauti- 
ful place,  only — I  happen  to  dislike  it.  You  know  I  do." 

"I  do  know,  and  I'm  sorry.  But — as  you  really  are 
overtired — you've  got  too  much  color  on  your  right 
cheek — can't  you  regard  it  as  a  hospital,  and  go  down 
for  a  short  cure?"  Before  she  could  answer,  he  had 
gone  on.  "At  any  rate  it  would  cure  that — that  yellow- 
ness you  mentioned." 

Tragically  she  turned  to  him,  her  eyebrows  knotted 
with  misery.  "O  Clow,  am  I  really  yellow?  Is  it  very 
bad?  When  did  you  first  notice  it?" 

He  rose.  "I  never  noticed  it  at  all,  Amy — don't  get 
excited.  It  was  you  who  spoke  of  it.  Only — would 
you  care  to  come  down  just  with  me — and  Clementine, 
of  course — for  a  little  rest?  I — I  could  read  aloud  to 


you " 

She  gave  a  little  high  laugh.  "Oh,  you  funny  old 
thing;  fancy  your  reading  aloud  to  me.  I  hate  being 
read  to — although  it's  very  kind  of  you  to  suggest  it — 
Clementine !" 

78 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

The  beetle-browed  maid  came  at  her  call  and  stood 
by  the  door.  "Le  chapeau  de  Madame?" 

"Oui,  siwoo  play,"  answered  her  mistress,  adding 
rapidly,  in  her  extraordinary  accent,  that  she  would 
have  the  new  riboux  with  the  paradise.  While  still  in 
her  short  petticoat  and  little  embroidered  linen  cache- 
corset,  his  wife  adjusted  the  hat,  and  helped  her  maid 
arrange  a  veil  to  her  liking,  Cloudesley  Dorset  stood 
in  silence. 

Then,  as  the  maid  arranged  a  white  skirt  on  the 
floor  and  her  mistress  stepped  delicately  into  it,  he 
withdrew. 

"I  shouldn't  have  bored  you  much,"  he  said,  quite 
without  pathos  or  humor,  "I  thought  it  might  do  you 
good  to  be  alone." 

She  smiled  at  him  as  she  slipped  on  a  white  blouse. 
"It  was  kind  of  you  to  think  of  it,"  she  answered,  cheer- 
fully, "but  it  would  kill  me  to  be  in  the  country  just 
now." 

When  he  had  gone  and  she  was  ready,  she  bade  her 
maid  good-bye,  went  into  her  bedroom,  closed  the  door, 
and  taking  from  a  locked  drawer  a  little  packet  of  let- 
ters, put  it  into  her  velvet  bag. 

"There !"  she  said,  running  out  her  tongue  at  the 
dressing-room  door,  "so  much  for  you,  my  excellent 
Clementine !" 


XIV 

AMY  DORSET  had  bad  nights  that  week;  when 
she  had  slept  she  had  dreadful  dreams,  and 
when  she  waked,  it  was  to  horrors  both  of  mem- 
ory and  anticipation. 

It  was  now  ten  days  since  she  had  faced  the  fact  that 
she  loved  Archie  Hood,  and  the  knowledge  had,  of 
course,  lost  part  of  its  terror  in  becoming  an  integral 
part  of  herself. 

"I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  seen"  may  be  changed, 
for  application  to  women,  to  "I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I 
have  felt,"  and  hitherto  the  little  Tanagra  lady  had  felt 
so  little  as  to  be  in  a  sense  almost  nothing. 

Pasquier  le  Breton's  analysis  of  her  was  remarkably 
correct  except  that  he,  being  a  man  and  in  no  way 
dependent  on  her  for  his  happiness  or  even  his  comfort, 
had  not  been  impressed  by  the  utter  selfishness  of  her 
life. 

To  him,  as  to  most  men,  a  pretty  woman  is  her  own 
excuse  for  being.  In  that  she  was  lovely  she  fulfilled 
her  destiny  so  far  as  he  was  concerned.  His  appeal 
to  Madame  Samain  for  advice  how  to  help  his  little 

80 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Undine,  was  the  result  of  his  sudden  realization  that  his 
little  Undine  was,  after  all,  a  human  soul  with  a  personal 
destiny  to  fulfill  to  herself. 

And  this  was  the  problem  that  was  troubling  her  in 
her  mental  penumbra. 

Side  by  side  with  her  chilly  virtue  had  always  walked 
two  attendant  spirits:  a  thoroughly  up-to-date  theo- 
retical knowledge  of  evil,  and  a  pleasantly  sneering 
broad-mindedness  towards  it.  It  had  always  pleased 
her,  as  it  always  does  please  fundamentally  simple- 
minded  women,  to  be  considered  worldly-wise  and  cyn- 
ical. 

And  now  in  her  need  she  had  no  one  to  help  her, 
no  one  to  whom  she  could  go  for  advice — not  even 
some  dead  and  gone  great  man,  for  the  knowledge  of 
books  had  been  but  an  innocent  pose.  She  was,  sur- 
rounded by  friends  and  acquaintances,  exceptionally 
alone. 

For  three  days  since  their  return  from  Southampton, 
she  had  not  seen  Hood,  and  this  was  not  only  her  doing, 
although  it  was  by  her  wish.  He  had  no  wish  to  see  her 
for  the  present,  for  being  in  his  way  a  very  wise  man 
he  had  decided,  as  he  expressed  it  mentally,  to  let  her 
have  her  scenes  out  with  herself. 

One  scene  he  knew  he  must  face,  but  when  it  came  he 
would  have  not  only  the  right,  but  the  duty  to  console 
her  with  kisses  and  tenderness  and  promises — any  prom- 

81 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

ises  she  might  ask  of  him !  In  the  meantime,  though  he 
was  desperately  in  love  with  her,  he  prepared  to  keep 
out  of  her  way.  He  was  in  love  with  her,  and  restless 
and  unhappy  in  not  seeing  her,  but  he  was  not  lonely. 
He  was  one  of  the  men  who  never  allow  themselves  to  be 
lonely. 

His  little  flirtation  with  Lord  Clanrobert's  second 
daughter  was  not  at  all  bad  fun,  and  Beryl  Spottis- 
woode  was  possessed  of  a  perverse  charm  that  whiled 
away  several  of  his  hours  very  pleasantly.  In  fact,  in 
the  ardor  of  the  chase  he  had  gone,  he  feared,  rather 
too  far,  and  Mrs.  Spottiswoode  would,  for  a  time,  re- 
quire skillful  handling,  not  because  she  had  been  given 
too  much  of  what  he  called  his  devotion,  but  because 
she  would  continue  to  demand  devotion  on  an  increasing 
scale ! 

The  lady  he  called  Juno  had  gone  away,  to  his  im- 
mense relief,  in  a  jealous  fury. 

When  the  moment  came,  as  it  probably  would,  that 
he  wished  to  see  her  again,  she  would,  he  knew,  come 
hieing  to  him. 

He  was  one  of  the  lads  to  whom,  when  they  whistle, 
the  women  come. 

So  Captain  Hood  was  in  his  banishment  not  broken- 
hearted, although  he  sincerely  and  often  violently  longed 
for  the  day  .when  he  should  have  what  he  called  his 
"enfin  sevls"  hour  with  Mrs.  Dorset. 

82 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Beyond  the  enfin  seuls  hour  his  imagination  did  not 
fare. 

Whereas  her  imagination,  poor,  little,  undeveloped 
growth  that  it  was,  struggled  on  in  clouds  of  bewilder- 
ment and  helplessness. 

While  he  was  thinking  of  kisses,  she  was  months 
ahead  considering  the  horrors  of  her  divorce ! 

The  divorces  of  one's  friends  are  beautifully  easy  to 
bear,  she  found,  but  one's  own  is  a  very  different  pair 
of  sleeves. 

Amongst  all  the  horrors  of  the  immediate  future  only 
one  thing  seemed  to  give  her  any  comfort.  Cloudesley 
would  not  mind. 

After  years  of  self-concentration,  of  a  selfishness 
practiced  so  consistently  that  her  husband  had  come  to 
mean  nothing  to  her,  it  was  odd  that  she  should  give 
him  even  this  poor  thought,  but  she  did. 

Cloudesley  would  not  mind.  He  would  hate  the  pub- 
licity, of  course,  but  he  would  arrange  it  all  with  the 
skill  possible  only  to  the  very  rich,  and  doubtless  he 
would  allow  her  to  divorce  him. 

In  the  midst  of  her  intense  preoccupation,  she  remem- 
bered over  and  over  again  to  be  glad  that  Cloudesley 
would  not  minding  losing  her. 

Undine  was  indeed  stirring  in  her  sleep. 


XV 

1.45  A.  M.,  25  July 
MY  BELOVED, 

I  am  just  home  after  dinner,  a  play,  and  supper  with 
the  party  of  whom  I  wrote  you  tonight. 

In  her  eyes  is  the  questing  look  of  women's  eyes  who  are 
beginning  an  unhappy  love.  Women  in  the  pain  of  love. 
The  words  remind  me  of  two  lines  of  music  I  meant  to  send 
to  you  before: 

"Tout  dort.    Seul,  a  mi  mort,  un  rossignol  de  nuit 
Module  en  mal  d'amour  sa  molle  melodic." 

Is  that  not  music  ?    Say  it  aloud  and  see.    Thy 

JULES. 


XVI 

ARCHIE  HOOD'S  enfin  seuls  hour  came  a  few  days 
later,  but  not  quite  as  he  had  imagined  it. 

Through  a  mere  hazard,  he  found  himself 
alone  with  Mrs.  Dorset  in  a  picture  gallery  where  he 
had  taken  refuge  from  a  sudden  shower,  and  whither 
she  had  come  to  see  the  paintings  of  an  unsuccessful 
young  man  who  was  in  love  with  her. 

It  was  after  one  o'clock  and  on  a  Friday,  so  the 
place  might  have  been  fairly  empty  had  the  artist  been 
a  good,  or  even  a  popular  one,  and,  as  it  happened,  not 
a  soul  was  there  except  Mrs.  Dorset. 

He  found  her  in  the  last  of  the  rooms,  sitting  on  a 
velvet  seat,  staring  at  a  picture  with  eyes  that  did  not 
see. 

Things  had  matured  during  the  yachting  trip  so  that 
the  correct  thing  was  for  him  to  take  her  into  his  arms 
and  kiss  her. 

He  did  so,  and  she  returned  his  kisses. 

"My  dear,  my  darling,"  he  murmured,  "I — I  do  love 
you  so." 

It  was  perfectly  true  that  he  loved  her,  he  was  shak- 

85 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

ing  with  an  emotion  none  the  less  real  because  he  had 
voiced  it  in  a  kind  of  formula  he  had  used  for  years  on 
similar  occasions.  He  always  said,  "My  dear,  my  dar- 
ling, I  do  love  you  so,"  but  she  did  not  know  this,  and, 
in  any  case,  although  he  had  always,  in  such  circum- 
stances, meant  what  he  said,  he  had  never  so  absolutely 
meant  it. 

The  rain  beat  down  on  the  skylight,  shutting  them 
by  its  sound  into  a  little  world  of  their  own. 

"Amy — tell  me,  tell  me  you  love  me " 

She  raised  to  his  her  beautiful  eyes,  round  which 
unshed  tears  had  slightly  smeared  the  black  stuff,  giving 
her  a  tragic  look. 

"I — I  adore  you,"  she  said,  in  a  faint  voice,  her  vel- 
vety pink  lips  trembling. 

They  sat  on  the  sofa  for  a  long  time.  What  they  said 
cloesn't  matter. 

The  artist,  roaming  about  looking  at  his  own  pic- 
tures, found  them,  but,  as  he  had  a  cough,  he  found 
Mrs.  Dorset  standing  by  a  sunset  at  Venice  and  Captain 
Hood  surveying  with  every  appearance  of  interest  a 
study  of  young  polar  bears  gamboling  on  ice. 

"You'll  see  me  this  evening,"  Hood  said  as  he  put  the 
lady  into  the  taxi  that  she  refused  to  share  with  him. 

"O  Archie,  how  can  I  ?" 

"I  am  coming.    You  must  have  a  headache  and  stay 

at  home " 

86 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

She  gave  a  nervous  little  giggle.  "Must  I  have  a 
headache  ?  How  cruel  you  are  to  me !" 

"You  must  have  a  very  severe  headache.  Amy — 
darling  heart — promise  me  you  will.  If  I  can't  see 
you  I — I  shall  go  mad." 

Very  handsome  he  looked,  his  dark  face  glowing  with 
the  joy  of  conquest,  under  the  dripping  umbrella. 

She  looked  at  his  tall,  slim  figure  and  blazing  black 
eyes  with  another  kind  of  pride,  the  pride  of  ownership. 
He  was  the  most  beautiful  man  she  had  ever  seen,  and 
he  loved  her,  therefore  he  was  hers ;  therefore  she  was 
proud. 

"Come  at  half-past  nine,  then,"  she  said,  almost  in  a 
whisper. 

She  drove  away  in  a  whirl  of  excitement  and  happi- 
ness. For  the  moment  her  fears  had  dispelled  like 
vapors  under  strong  sunlight;  she  remembered  only 
that  they  loved  each  other  and  that  she  should  see 
him  at  half-past  nine — in  seven  and  a  half  hours'  time. 
She  would,  she  decided,  studying  her  face  intently  in  the 
glass,  wear  the  gray  and  silver  teagown. 

For  his  part,  Hood  drove  straight  to  his  club  and 
had  a  drink. 


XVII 

THE  DORSETS  were  going  to  Deauville  that 
year,  with  a  party  of  merry  souls  who  had 
seen  each  other  constantly  all  through  the  sea- 
son, and  were  extremely  intimate.  There  were  Lord  and 
Lady  Tolhurst,  there  were  the  Penhollyn-Digbys  and 
Leicester  Browne  with  an  E,  there  were  Sir  George  Au- 
brey and  his  pretty  Syrian  wife,  there  was  Baron  von 
Schmidt,  the  son  of  the  great  Frankfort  banker,  his 
fiancee  Lady  Ida  Belfield  whom  Mrs.  Penhollyn-Digby 
was  chaperoning;  there  were  two  comparatively  unat- 
tached young  men,  and  there  was  Lawrence  Croxley. 

She  was  not  particularly  popular  with  the  party  and 
she  knew  it  and  did  not  care  a  rush. 

She  loathed  Mrs.  Digby,  and  Ida  Belfield  she  dis- 
liked. The  Tolhursts  were  what  she  mentally  called 
decent  though  dull,  but  at  least  one  of  the  young  men 
she  considered  dull  and  not  even  decent.  So  she  went, 
as  she  told  her  grandmother,  a  terrific  old  lady  living 
at  Hampton  Court,  as  a  leaven. 

"They  must  be  pretty  bad,"  commented  Lady  Brath 
dryly. 

88 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Lawrence  nodded.  "They  are.  But  they  are  the  only 
lot  going  off  in  that  way — en  masse — and  it's  a  place 
•where  one  need  never  be  alone." 

"It's  Mrs.  Dorset,  I  take  it,  who  dislikes  solitude?" 

It  was  a  blazing  hot  Sunday,  and  the  two  ladies  sat 
by  the  open  window  looking  out  over  the  park.  There 
was  a  positive  glare  of  flowers ;  if  they  had  expressed 
themselves  in  music,  the  result  would  have  been  dis- 
pleasing. 

Old  Lady  Brath,  who  despised  her  granddaughter  for 
her  unmitigated  plainness,  looked  at  her  angrily. 

"Very  expensive  place  I'm  told,  Deauville." 

"Awful." 

"Are  you  going  on  your  own?" 

Miss  Croxley's  mouth  tightened.  She  had  not  for 
her  grandmother's  temper  the  respect  it  inspired  in 
most  people,  for  her  own  temper,  she  knew,  could  be 
quite  as  violent,  but  she  was  furiously  angry. 

"I  never  go  anywhere,"  she  said  quietly,  "except  on 
my  own." 

"Ugh !" 

Lady  Brath,  in  her  day,  had  been  a  famous  "guest." 
For  months  at  a  time  she  had  lived  at  other  people's 
expense,  which  was  the  more  clever  of  her  in  that  her 
malice,  hatred,  and  all  uncharitableness  had  gained  her 
a  universal  dislike.  And  Lawrence  knew  this,  and  she 
knew  that  Lawrence  knew. 

89 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

Over  the  flower-beds  under  the  window  the  big  butter- 
flies dipped  and  planed.  It  pleased  Lawrence  to  remem- 
ber the  pretty  Spanish  word  for  this  most  flowerlike  of 
God's  creatures. 

"Isn't  mariposa  a  charming  word?"  she  asked,  ab- 
sently. 

"Ma.Tl-what?"  snapped  the  aged  lady. 

"Nothing.  I  was  thinking  aloud."  And  she  made  up 
her  mind  to  tell  Cloudesley  Dorset  the  word  when  she 
saw  him  that  night. 

"How  is  that  little  idiot  going  on?"  Lady  Brath 
asked  suddenly. 

"She's  very  well.  And  very  pretty.  There  never 
was  a  prettier  creature." 

"I  never  could  see  it,  myself." 

That  most  blighting  of  rejoinders,  "No,  you 
wouldn't !"  sprang  to  Lawrence's  lips,  but  she  did  not 
utter  it.  As  a  child  she  had  been  taught  to  respect  old 
age,  and  even  her  unreasonable  grandmother  could  not 
quite  destroy  the  feeling  that  old  age,  per  se,  deserved 
great  courtesy. 

"A  little  flirting  fool,  no  brains  and  no  soul,  and" — 
to  the  aged  woman  her  last  accusation  was  by  far  the 
worst — "old  enough  to  know  better." 

Lawrence  did  not  answer. 

She  had  been  motored  out  by  some  friends  who  wanted 

90 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

to  see  the  gardens,  and  was  to  wait  until  they  came  for 
her.  She  sat  still. 

"A  silly,  middle-aged  butterfly,"  went  on  Lady  Brath 
venomously. 

Lawrence  started.  What  a  pretty  name  for  poor 
little  Amy — Mariposa.  She  would  call  her  by  it.  "Tan- 
agra"  was  pretty,  but  "Tannie"  was  hideous. 

An  infinitely  tender  smile  lit  the  bony  dark  face  in 
the  sunlight. 

Lady  Brath,  from  her  height  of  seventy-odd  years, 
regarded  Amy  Dorset,  who  was  five-and-thirty,  as  prac- 
tically an  old  woman,  but  to  Lawrence's  five-and-forty 
the  little  creature  seemed  very  young. 

"Barbara  Questingham  was  here  yesterday,"  an- 
nounced Lady  Brath  presently. 

"Was  she?" 

"Yes.  Her  hands  are  very  much  twisted  with  rheu- 
matic gout.  But  then  she  always  overate.  She  tells 
me  your  Mrs.  Dorset  is  compromising  herself  with  one 
of  the  Hood  boys." 

Lawrence  flushed  angrily.  "It's  not  true,"  she  cried, 
"and  Lady  Barbara  is  a  malicious  old  cat." 

Her  grandmother  chuckled.  "Aha!  If  it  weren't 
true  you  wouldn't  mind  her  saying  it !  I  suppose  young 
Hood  is  one  of  the  Deauville  party?" 

"No,  he  isn't."  But  poor  Lawrence  spoke  without 
great  conviction  for  she  could  picture  the  unexpected, 

91 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

quite-by-chance  arrival  at  the  Hotel  de  la  Normandie, 
of  the  man  in  question. 

"If  it's  the  one  I  remember,  he's  a  nice  boy " 

"Boy!    He's  thirty-five  if  he's  a  day." 

"That's  what  I  said;  a  nice  boy." 

"Yet  you  think  Amy  old,  because  she's  thirty-five," 
blundered  her  granddaughter.  "O  grandmother,"  she 
added  nervously,  "don't  cackle !" 

But  Lady  Brath,  now  in  a  high  good  humor,  did 
cackle,  and  with  real  delight. 

"All  female  children,"  she  declared,  "are  ten  years 
old  when  they  are  born.  That  explains  many  things." 

Lawrence  rose  wearily. 

"There's  Jimmy  Bowes  looking  for  me,  so  I  must  go. 
Good-bye,  grandmother." 

The  old  woman  caught  her  hand  and  held  it  very 
tight. 

"Barbara  may  be  a  cat,  but  cats  are  sharp-eyed. 
And  she  says  that  young  Hood  is  really  in  love  this 
time.  If  he  is,  and  if  it  lasts — she  says  your  Amy 
person  has  quite  lost  her  head " 

"That's  a  lie " 

"About  him.  Quite.  So  it  has  occurred  to  me,"  went 
on  Lady  Brath,  still  holding  her  granddaughter's  hand 
in  a  vise,  "that  if  they  are  both  really  serious,  there 
might  be — Lawrence,  look  at  me! — a  chance  for  you." 

Lawrence  Croxley  made  no  attempt  to  withdraw  her 

92 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

hand.  Instead,  it  seemed  to  the  old  woman  to  melt  and 
shrink  in  hers. 

"Good-bye,  grandmother." 

Four  fierce  black  eyes  gazed  into  each  other  for  a 
moment,  and  then  Miss  Croxley  left  the  room. 

In  the  passage  she  stood  still,  pinching  her  blanched 
cheeks  with  icy  fingers. 

Then  she  went  out  into  the  sunny  garden  and  joined 
her  friends. 


xvm 

MILLIPEDE!" 
"Sir!" 

Millipede  appeared  in  the  open  door,  a  bunch 
of  pink  roses  in  his  hand. 

"Ah,  the  flowers  have  come " 

"I  went  out  and  got  them  myself,  sir.  They  are 
beautiful.  All  pink  and  white." 

Hood  nodded.  "Good.  Did  you  get  the  chocolates 
with  violet  stuff  inside?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  the  roseleaf  jam?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Went  down  to  the  City  for  that,  sir,  to 
a  little  Greek  place  I  know  of.  I  also  got  some  Man- 
darin orange  preserves " 

"Excellent.  Well — I  hope  you  remember  all  my  in- 
structions." 

"Yes,  sir.  I  am  to  prepare  the  tea-table,  and  the 
cold  supper — I  have  made  the  lobster  salad,  sir,  and  the 
champagne  is  in  the  ice-chest — and  I  am  to  be  out  of 
the  house  by  four-thirty." 

"That's  right." 

94 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Hood  went  on  writing,  and  the  valet,  a  sudden  grin 
wrinkling  his  odd  face,  asked  demurely,  "As  to  my  com- 
ing in,  sir?" 

His  master  frowned,  but  did  not  look  up  from  his 
letter. 

"You  will  be  back  at  half-past  seven,  as  usual." 

Millipede  retired  to  his  pantry,  and  went  on  with  his 
work  of  arranging  several  pounds'  worth  of  white  and 
pink  roses  for  the  decking  of  the  flat. 

"One  of  our  prudent  fits  on,"  he  mused,  with  a  smile 
to  himself.  "Supper  all  ready  and  me  to  be  back  at 
seven-thirty,  as  usual!  That  means,  of  course,  that 
she's  a  topper.  Also  that  he's  not  quite  sure  of  'er. 
Ah,  well,"  he  concluded,  drying  his  hands  after  filling 
the  last  vase  with  roses,  "after  all,  it's  'is  business,  not 
mine,  but  I'd  gladly  risk  a  fiver  on  'er  not  living  a  hun- 
dred miles  from  Park  Lane." 

Silently,  deftly,  he  posed  his  gay  roses  in  the  living- 
room,  a  bowl  on  the  table,  vases  here  and  there,  one  or 
two  single  flower  glasses  budding  as  it  were,  in  unex- 
pected corners. 

He  loved  flowers,  this  servant  whose  duties  were  more 
confidential  and  less  respectable  than  are  those  of  most 
servants,  and  flowers,  as  is  their  way,  seemed  to  return 
his  love  by  lasting  better  for  him  than  they  did  for  most 
people. 

Hood  did  not  look  up  from  his  letters  or  speak  again, 

95 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

and  after  five  minutes  the  man  withdrew,  and  the  master 
heard  the  outer  door  of  the  flat  close  behind  him. 

The  room  was  a  large  pleasant  one,  overlooking  Hyde 
Park. 

There  were  some,  not  many,  books,  the  carpet  was  a 
fine  Persian  one,  the  chintz,  at  once  cheery  and  sober- 
colored,  suitable  to  a  man's  abode.  There  was  a  piano, 
for  Hood  sang  a  little  in  a  high  throaty  tenor,  but  there 
was  also  a  pianola,  run  by  electricity,  and  flanked  by 
a  big  shelf  full  of  rolls  of  very  light  music. 

Some  good  sporting  prints  brightened  the  sober 
walls,  and  on  the  big  table  stood  a  very  beautiful  statu- 
ette of  a  cricketer  about  to  bowl. 

Hood  had  been  earlier  in  his  life  a  fairly  good  all- 
round  athlete,  and  there  were  in  the  room  several  sou- 
venirs of  his  prowess. 

Over  the  mantelpiece  hung  a  remarkably  beautiful 
pastel  of  a  young  woman  in  the  dress  of  1880,  a  very 
charming  young  woman  who  would  have  been  pretty  but 
for  a  slightly  underhung  jaw.  This  was  his  mother, 
whom  he  deeply  loved.  In  Mr.  Millipede's  opinion,  the 
room  looked  rather  bare  during  what  he  called  the  Ban- 
ishment. The  Banishment  consisted  of  the  temporary 
withdrawal  to  a  cupboard  of  some  twenty  elaborately 
framed  photographs  of  ladies,  that  as  a  rule  stood  about 
on  the  tables  and  pianos.  Millipede,  who  had  a  real 
affection  for  his  master — he  would,  if  circumstances  had 

96 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

allowed  it,  himself  have  been  just  such  another,  faults 
and  all! — always  regarded  the  Banishment  as  a  rather 
serious  thing. 

It  always  presaged  for  his  master  a  really  rather  seri- 
ous love  affair,  and  in  these  really  rather  serious  ones 
Millipede  had  seen  Hood  as  really  rather  suffer. 

Not  for  the  tall  one  with  red  hair  were  the  photo- 
graphs removed;  not  for  the  overblown  one;  not  for 
the  one  who  laughed  so  loud.  But  they  had  been  re- 
moved in  their  turn  for  Lady  Wellbury,  and  for  Eve 
Raspail,  the  French  actress,  and  for  poor  little  Mrs. 
Orbett,  who  killed  herself 

Of  these  things  Millipede  thought  as  he  repaired  that 
afternoon  to  his  club,  The  Yellow  Posts,  which  social 
center  was  situated  within  a  stone's  throw  of  Park 
Lane. 

Mr.  Immenham  was  at  the  club,  reading  the  Specta- 
tor. 

"How  do,  Immenham.  Haven't  seen  you  since  that 
day  in  the  rain.  Charming  pretty  girl,  your — sister,  if 
I  may  say  so." 

Immenham  looked  at  him  haughtily.  Then  he  went 
back  to  his  Spectator. 

"I  trust  all  is  well  at  875,  the  Lane  ?" 

Mr.  Millipede  never  felt  himself  insulted  until  he  was 
kicked.  Moreover,  he  was  a  born  tease. 

"I  was  at  your  'ouse  this  morning,"  he  said  with  an 

97 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

air  of  irresponsible  gayety.  "Hoped  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  you,  but  that  pie-faced  William  opened 
the  door.  I  don't  like  William,  he's  got  no  chick.  None. 
Miss  Archbold  tells  me  Vs  leaving." 

"Yes,"  answered  Immenham. 

"Fine  girl,  Miss  Archbold,  and  she's  even  better  in 
mufti  than  in  uniform — though  a  parlormaid's  cap  can 
look  like  a  crown  on  a  pretty  girl." 

Even  this  poetic  remark  failed  to  draw  a  reply  from 
Immenham,  so  Mr.  Millipede  withdrew  to  the  billiard 
room  where  he  had  a  match  with  a  marquess'  first  foot- 
man. 

A  few  minutes  later  Mr.  Immenham  went  his  way, 
for  it  was  his  afternoon,  and  he  was  a  gentleman  at 
large. 

Millipede,  for  his  part,  finished  his  game — losing  with 
good  grace — and  after  a  long  walk  in  the  Park,  and  a 
bit  of  supper  at  a  bar  kept  by  a  friend,  he  went  back  to 
the  flat. 

He  was  a  good  deal  of  a  scoundrel,  being  a  servant 
for  the  possession  of  whom  Don  Juan  would  have  been 
tempted  to  fight  Captain  Hood,  but  he  was  a  man  full 
of  human  sympathy,  and  it  was  with  a  real  thrill  of 
vicarious  excitement  that  he  opened  the  door  of  27  with 
his  latchkey. 

It  was  exactly  seven-thirty. 

The  place  was  perfectly  quiet,  only  the  ticking  of  a 

98 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

grandfather's  clock  in  the  hall  broke  the  silence;  the 
sitting-room  door  was  ajar. 

After  a  short  pause  the  man  went  into  the  empty 
room. 

The  blinds  were  undrawn,  and  the  glory  of  the  sky 
turned  the  dusk  to  darkness.  The  roses  filled  the  room 
with  their  scent  and  on  the  floor  lay  a  deep  red  rose. 
Millipede  had  arranged  only  pink  and  white  ones. 

A  song  was  open  on  the  piano,  which  he  had  left 
closed. 

Two  tea-cups  had  been  used  and  of  these  one  was 
still  half  full,  the  cream  standing  thick  on  top.  The 
cakes  were  almost  untouched,  and  half  of  a  chocolate 
fondant  stuffed  with  violet  cream  lay  on  a  plate. 

In  a  brass  bowl  lay  the  ends  of  seven  cigarettes,  three 
consumed  to  the  last  quarter  of  an  inch,  the  other  four 
burnt  irregularly  and  only  for  a  third  of  their  length. 

Millipede  stood  for  a  moment  studying  these  details, 
his  face  wrinkling  half  in  amusement,  half  in  concern. 

"I'd  give  something  to  know,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"which  of  'em  smoked  the  cigarettes  to  the  end " 

Then  he  set  the  room  in  order. 


XIX 

AMY  dear — dear  little  Mariposa — won't  you  tell 
me?" 

Mrs.  Dorset  laughed,  a  small  flame  of  bright 
color  on  either  cheek  belying  the  artificial  pink  under 
which  it  glowed. 

"Tell  you  what,  Lawrence?  I've  nothing  to  tell — 
except  that  I  shall  be  late  for  the  garden  party  if  you 
don't  let  me  go." 

Lawrence  Croxley,  who  looked  very  old  and  wan,  and 
even  plainer  than  usual,  caught  her  friend's  hand  in 
hers. 

"Amy — I  know  you'll  think  me  an  interfering  beast, 
but — it's  only  because  I  am  so  fond  of  you,  dear." 
Poor,  time-worn,  piteous,  unavailing  plea ! 

Again  Amy  laughed.  "Of  course  you're  fond  of  me 
— so  am  I  of  you,  but  Queen  Alexandra  is  to  be  there, 
so  we  simply  mustn't  be  late.  Good-bye,  dear  old 
thing." 

Miss  Croxley  made  a  final  effort.  "Good-bye,  dear — 
and  O  Tannie,  do  for  God's  sake  let  me  have  a  talk 
with  you  before  next  week." 

100 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"All  right — all  right,  whenever  you  like,"  returned 
the  little  lady,  impatience  in  her  voice  and  in  her  face, 
"but  I  must  go  now." 

It  was  four  o'clock,  and  one  of  those  nerve-racking 
days  when  no  man  can  tell  at  what  minute  a  downfall 
of  rain  may  occur ;  one  of  the  days  that  seem  to  choose 
dates  fixed  for  important  garden  parties  and  other  out- 
of-door  fetes  for  their  appearance. 

Miss  Croxley,  who  was  wearing  a  new  frock  of  brown- 
ish linen,  in  which  her  sallow  skin  looked  yellower  than 
ever,  stood  thoughtfully  by  the  little  fountain  when  the 
garden  door  had  closed,  and  gazed  at  the  cloud-charged 
sky. 

She  was  very  unhappy  about  her  friend  and  she  had 
a  guilty  conscience  as  well. 

An  hour  before  as  she  stood  in  the  telephone  room, 
looking  up  a  number,  the  bell  had  rung  and  she  had 
answered  it. 

"Hullo — Captain  Hood  speaking.  I  want  to  speak 
to  Mrs.  Dorset,  please." 

With  no  idea  of  disguising  her  own  voice,  Lawrence 
replied,  "Mrs.  Dorset's  dressing." 

There  was  a  pause  and  then  he  went  on. 

"I  see.  Well,  will  you  please  give  her  this  message. 
Just  say  that  my  sister  in  Essex — she'll  know  the  name 
— has  called  me  to  the  country  on  important  business 
—got  that?" 

101 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Yes." 

"I'm  going  by  the  seven  o'clock  train,  and  as  I  wish 
to  see  Mrs.  Dorset  about  the  costumes  for  the  dance 
on  Friday — got  that? — I'll  call, today  about  six.  Do 
you  understand?" 

Lawrence  answered,  "Yes,"  adding  after  what  seemed 
to  him  a  long  pause,  "sir." 

"At  six,"  he  went  on,  impressively.  "Tell  Mrs.  Dor- 
set I'm  sorry  to  ask  her  to  come  back  early  from  the 
garden  party,  but  that  it  is  most  important  about  the 
costumes." 

"Yes,  sir." 

i 

"Thanks  very  much,  I  needn't  wait  for  an  answer,  as 
I  know  Mrs.  Dorset  is  anxious  to  know  about  the  cos- 
tumes  " 

He  rang  off,  leaving  Miss  Croxley  facing  the  tele- 
phone as  if  it  were  the  judge  before  whom  she  was  being 
tried  for  life. 

She  had  not  mentioned  the  message  to  Amy,  and 
Amy  would  not  be  back  until  after  seven. 

"I  must  tell  Immenham  to  tell  him  she  said  she'd  be 
out  tiU  late." 

As  she  spoke  the  sun  came  out,  the  sudden  warmth 
almost  as  tangible  as  rain.  Lawrence  picked  a  rose  and, 
shaking  off  the  wet  from  the  last  shower,  tucked  it  into 
her  belt  and  went  up  the  steps. 

At  the  top  an  idea  struck  her.  "I'll  see  him  myself ! 
102 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

He'll  hate  it  and  so  shall  I,  but  I  may  be  able  to  per- 
suade him " 

No  woman  on  earth  was  less  adapted  to  persuasive 
arts,  and  certainly  the  female  creature  did  not  live  who 
could  less  hope  to  influence  a  man  of  Archie  Hood's 
kidney.  However,  a  forlorn  hope  is  better  than  none, 
and  Miss  Croxley,  as  she  drank  her  tea,  was  not  so 
hopeless  as  she  might  have  been. 

Hood's  greeting,  when,  according  to  orders,  Immen- 
ham  had  ushered  him  in  without  a  word,  disheartened 
her  a  little,  it  was  so  unruffled,  even  so  cheery. 

The  wretch  was  too  sure  of  himself  to  be  annoyed 
even  by  her  hated  presence. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Captain  Hood?" 

"How  are  you,  Miss  Croxley?  Mrs.  Dorset  not  yet 
back  from  the  flower  show?" 

"It's  a  garden  party.  Won't  you  sit  down?  No, 
she's  not  back  yet.  In  fact  she  won't  be  back  until 
late." 

Hood  allowed  himself  the  luxury  of  a  half  smile. 
"Won't  she?  That's  bad  luck  for  me,  isn't  it?" 

Miss  Croxley  fixed  her  gaze  on  the  white  carnation 
in  his  coat,  thinking  at  the  same  time  two  distinct 
things :  that  only  a  strict  regard  for  the  canons  of 
good  taste  prevented  Archie  Hood  from  burgeoning  into 
bright  colors  and  soft  fabrics ;  that  he  would  have  liked 
to  wear  rings  and  an  inch  more  of  hair  on  his  head. 

103 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

This  was  one  of  her  simultaneous  thoughts.  The  other 
was  that  he  was  chuckling  over  her  supposed  state  of 
ignorance  about  the  telephoning. 

This  perception  prompted  her  unprecedented  plunge 
into  the  thick  of  things. 

"I  never  gave  her  your  message,"  she  declared 
bluntly. 

"What !" 

"No.     It  was  I  at  the  telephone " 

He  flushed  with  anger,  his  rather  soft-looking  lips 
pursing  like  a  girl's.  "You!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
then?" 

"Because  I  wanted  to  hear  what  you  had  to  say. 
Besides,  it  was  your  own  fault  for  assuming  that  I  was 
a  servant." 

"And  why,  may  I  ask,  didn't  you  at  least  tell  Mrs. 
Dorset  what  I  said?" 

Lawrence  looked  at  him  squarely.  "For  one  thing," 
she  answered,  "Amy  knew  all  about  the  costumes.  Her 
costume  is  finished  and  hanging  in  a  cupboard  in  her 
dressing-room.  So,"  she  wound  up  with  a  peculiar 
clarity  of  voice,  "you  lied." 

For  a  moment  he  lost,  in  his  disappointment  and 
anger,  his  self-control;  he  said  rude  things. 

When  he  had  stopped  speaking  she  said,  "All  these 
things  are  things  any  man  would  have  felt  under 
the  circumstances.  I  am  glad,  however,  to  think 

104 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

that  I  know  very  few  men  who  would  have  said  them." 

He  made  an  unqualified  apology,  which  she  accepted. 

"Incidentally,"  he  returned,  trying  to  laugh,  "it's 
the  first  time  I've  ever  been  called  a  liar." 

She  looked  meditatively  at  him,  little  flames  in  her 
deep  eyes.  "I  am,"  she  said,  "so  constituted  that  I 
cannot  understand  how  people  can  bear  to  do  things 
that  they  cannot  bear  to  have  named." 

He  rose,  flushing  again  and  scowling,  his  heavy  eye- 
brows meeting  over  his  nose. 

"I  think  I  won't  wait  any  longer,"  he  said,  stiffly. 

"Oh,  please  don't  go.  I  will  not  inflict  any  more  of 
my  odd  notions  upon  you.  Also — my  other  reason 
for  not  giving  Amy  your  message  was  that  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you  myself." 

The  man's  experience  had  been  such  that  it  is  scarcely 
remarkable  that  his  first  thought  was,  "Good  God,  you 
too!"  He  was  not  a  coxcomb,  but  he  knew  that  neither 
ugliness  nor  age  had  the  power  to  instill  wisdom  into 
some  women,  and,  flashed  like  lightning  through  his 
mind,  Mrs.  Lowndes,  his  portly  Juno,  must  be  older  by 
two  or  three  years  than  this  black-avised  spinster. 

On  the  whole  it  was  to  his  credit  that  his  face  held 
no  betrayal  of  his  involuntary  thoughts. 

"You  wish  to  speak  to  me?"  he  repeated  with  cour- 
tesy. 

"Yes." 

105 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"If  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you " 


She  rose  suddenly  and  came  close  to  him. 

"You  can,"  she  said  with  abruptness,  "to  me  and 
to  several  other  people — by  leaving  Amy  Dorset  alone." 

Burning  at  the  stake  was  the  least  he  would  at  that 
moment  have  condemned  her  to.  He  did  not  know  what 
to  say ;  he  was  furious,  outraged,  alarmed,  and  horribly 
embarrassed. 

"MissCroxley!" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  I'm  doing  a  perfectly  unheard-of 
thing,  but — she's — she's  so  alone  and  I'm  fond  of  her." 

"You  are  evidently  assuming  things  that  are  entirely 
wrong — mistaken,"  he  stammered.  "Because  I  have 
danced  a  great  deal  with  Mrs.  Dorset,  it  doesn't  follow 
that— that " 

"That  what?"  she  interrupted,  inexorably,  knowing 
the  value  in  argument  of  letting  one's  opponent  express 
the  situation. 

"That — that  there's  any  reason  for  asking  me  to — 
to  let  her  alone.  The  phrase  is,  besides,"  he  continued, 
feeling  ground  under  his  feet  again,  "very  offensive  to 
her." 

"To  whom?" 

Amazed  at  her  stupidity,  he  committed  himself.  "To 
whom?  Why,  to  Amy,  of  course." 

He  saw  his  blunder  at  once,  and  that  she  had  trapped 
him,  and  blistered.  "What's  more,  if  there  were  any 

106 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

interfering  to  be  done,  I  suggest  your  leaving  it  to — 
Dorset." 

"To  Cloudesley,"  she  repeated,  "but  he " 

"He's  her  husband  and  if  he  objects  to  my  dancing 
with  his  wife  he  can  tell  me  himself.  I  refuse  to  discuss 
the  matter  any  further  with  you,  Miss  Croxley." 

He  bowed  as  he  spoke  and  went  towards  the  door. 

"I  don't  think  he  objects,  as  yet,"  she  said,  "but—- 
he— knows." 

Hood  turned  fiercely.     "What  does  he  know?" 

In  a  way  she  was  defeated,  for  she  knew  now  for  cer- 
tain what  she  had  almost  known  before  making  the  at- 
tempt: that  no  effort  of  hers  could  ever  prevail  with 
this  man.  But  side  by  side  with  her  defeat  was  her 
triumph. 

The  enemy  was  retreating  under  heavy  fire  and  with 
great  losses. 

"He  knows,"  she  said  quietly,  looking  at  him  through 
her  lorgnon,  "what  everybody  knows,  that  you  are  mak- 
ing love  to  his  wife.  But  he  also  knows  what  thus  far 
only  she  and  you  and  I  know — that  she  is  letting  you." 

Before  he  could  speak  she  had  rung  the  bell,  and  he 
was  obliged  to  go. 

Heavy-hearted  she  made  her  way  home.  Victory  or 
defeat,  it  had  been  a  bloody  engagement. 


XX 


MISS  CROXLEY'S  face,  as  she  sat  in  one  of  the 
door  corners  of  the  bus,  was  so  grim  and  un- 
pleasantly concentrated  that  nearly  every  one 
of  the  people  traveling  through  the  wet  with  her,  paid 
her  the  tribute  of  a  disapproving  thought. 

"Cross  old  frump,"  said  to  herself  the  pretty  girl 
with  openwork  stockings  and  an  aged  Burberry. 

"Stop  a  clock,  that  face,"  mused  the  girl's  neighbor, 
a  slightly  bemused  char-lady. 

"I  pity  her  husband,"  thought  a  little  bride  with  a  net 
bag  full  of  household  purchases. 

Miss  Croxley,  as  if  she  felt  this  weight  of  disapproval, 
raised  her  eyes  and  swept  across  her  fellow-passengers 
a  comprehensive  glance  of  fierce  loathing  that  startled 
some  of  the  more  timid. 

"Pigs,"  she  called  them,  mentally,  "vulgar  brutes. 
Ugh — that  bad-smelling  woman  in  the  man's  ulster  and 
cap." 

She  was  in  a  vile  and  very  furious  temper,  and  as  the 
bus  turned  into  Hyde  Park  Road  she  was  deep  in  a 

108 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

review  of  the  things  that  that  morning  in  particular 
embittered  her  world. 

She  loathed  buses ;  she  execrated  the  earth-shattering 
vans  that  roar  through  the  streets,  like  railway  trains 
gone  mad,  laden  with  bricks  or  flour  or  beer-barrels ; 
she  hated  in  a  wilder  way  the  poisonously  uninteresting 
vehicles  like  degraded  broughams  with  the  seats  running 
the  wrong  way,  commercial  chariots  usually  piled  from 
ceiling  to  floor  with  bales  of  cloth  or  cardboard  boxes 
that  in  their  abundance  leave  just  room  for  a  plain 
elderly  man  and  his  notebook  and  pencil,  or  at  best,  his 
newspaper. 

She  would  have  consigned  to  an  overheated  perdition 
the  wandering  slackers  who  blow  from  out-of-tune  brass 
instruments  incorrect  and  hideous  versions  of  music 
every  note  of  which  one  knows  in  its  pristine  form.  She 
hated  fat  women  of  fifty  with  bulging  faces  and  torsos 
obviously  in  need  of  pneumatic  readjustment;  she  hated 
dirty  unshaven  men  in  greasy  and  foul  frock-coats  and 
rakishly  set  hats  who  abound  in  London  and  are  more 
or  less  unknown  elsewhere.  She  hated  undersized, 
spotty-faced  mashers  of  eighteen  who  leered  at  the  maid- 
ens of  their  own  rank,  and  she  hated  the  maidens  who 
bridled  at  the  leer ! 

She  hated  the  painted  young  men  who  in  musical 
comedies  follow  the  heroine  about  with  ill-taught  ges- 
tures of  their  common,  white-gloved  hands. 

109 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

She  hated  smart  women  of  known  class  who  look 
twenty  behind,  and  sixty  in  front. 

She  abhorred  what  is  known  to  those  who  like  it,  as 
"wholesome  English  food" — food  which  she  wrathfully 
described,  as  she  went  on  with  her  list  that  day  in  the 
bus,  as  woolly  mutton  and  soapy  potatoes. 

She  despised  curates  who,  as  a  type,  she  believed  to 
have  swallowed  their  own  chins  and  disposed  of  them  as 
Adam's  apples.  And  no  words  could  describe  the 
intensity  of  her  rage  as  she  thought  of  the  driveling 
idiots  of  pedestrians  who  apparently  think  themselves 
brilliantly  clever  in  crossing  the  street  at  an  angle  of 
ninety  degrees,  wambling  along  in  their  imbecile  self- 
approval  almost  in  a  line  with  the  current  of  the  traffic. 

Boys  on  bicycles  she  would  have  strung  up  by  their 
thumbs,  and  at  the  mental  spectacle  of  the  trailer  luna- 
tics her  vituperative  imagination  failed  her  utterly. 

Yet  Lawrence  Croxley  was  an  exceptionally  kind 
woman  in  many  ways,  and  often  denuded  herself  of  the 
little  luxuries  that  to  women  are  so  much  more  neces- 
sary than  necessaries,  that  she  might  be  able  to  help 
some  needy  acquaintance. 

One's  minor  hatreds  are  very  vital  things,  and  if  lined 
up  and  classified  as  she  lined  up  and  classified  hers  be- 
tween "the  Grove,"  as  the  people  in  her  street  designated 
the  Grove  of  Westbourne,  and  the  Marble  Arch,  many 
of  us  would  probably  discover  our  own  lists  to  be  nearly 

110 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

as  long  as  that  of  the  poor  lady  with  the  grim  face 
under  the  shabby  brown  hat. 

As  she  alighted,  insisting  to  the  conductor's  very  ar- 
ticulate disgust  on  a  complete  stoppage  of  the  vehicle 
which  she  so  loathed,  she  suddenly  realized  how  she  had 
been  using  her  brain,  and  she  laughed. 

"  'Black  and  oblong  thoughts,'  "  she  said  under  her 
breath,  as  she  made  her  way  towards  Park  Lane.  "I  am 
an  old  fool.  Now  for  some  round  and  white  thoughts." 

"Hello,  Lawrence — you'll  be  run  in  if  you  wander 
about  in  Park  Lane  talking  to  yourself !" 

It  was  Dorset. 

His  heavy  face  was  as  inexpressive  as  usual,  as  he 
went  on,  "What  is  it  that  you  were  saying?  It  can't 
have  been  about  'round,  white  thoughts,'  but  it  sounded 
like  it." 

"It  was  too,  Clow.  I — I'm  in  the  vilest  temper  today 
— I  came  all  the  way  from  la-bas  thinking  of  the  things 
I  hate,  which  is  a  criminal  proceeding." 

He  was  silent,  and  they  plodded  on  under  his  umbrella 
to  his  door  before  he  spoke  again. 

"Yes,  but  what  was  it  about  round  thoughts?" 
he  persisted,  with  the  mild  obstinacy  she  knew  so 
well. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  them,  shutting  them  with 
its  heavy  clang  so  suddenly  and  completely  away  from 
the  crowd  and  the  ugliness  of  the  workaday  world,  she 

111 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

turned  her  head  away  from  him,  a  sudden  blush  almost 
hurting  her  face. 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  met  since  her  talk 
with  her  grandmother,  and  she  realized  and  feared  the 
fact. 

"How  lonely  the  poor  roses  look  in  the  rain,"  she 
said,  hastily. 

"Yes,  Lawrence — tell  me  about  the  round  thoughts." 

"Your  initials,  C.  D.,  mean  not  only  Cloudesley  Dor- 
set, Clow,"  she  crowed  in  delight  at  the  coincidence, 
"they  also  mean  Constant  Dropping!  You'd  wear 
away  any  stone." 

He  opened  his  eyes  wide,  thus  dropping  his  monocle, 
and  smiled.  "Rather  odd,  that.  Well — what  did  it 
mean  ?" 

So  she  told  him,  as  they  stood  in  the  little  dripping 
garden,  under  the  umbrella  that  was  so  wet  that  it 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  oiled. 

"It's  from  a  poem,  I  forget  by  whom.     It  begins : 

*  'The  silver  girl  she  came  to  me  when  Spring  was  dancing 
green/ 

and  goes  on — Oh,  I've  forgotten,  but  the  first  stanza 
ends: 

"  'And  I'll  get  you  into  Heaven  yet,  you  damned  old  fool.'  " 

112 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Dorset  gazed  at  her  solemnly.  "Yes — but  what 
about " 

"Wait.  I've  forgotten  the  words  but  they  are  some- 
thing like  this : 

"And  all  my  black  and  oblong  thoughts  went  crying  to  the 

wilds 

And  all  my  thoughts  are  round  and  white,  like  any  little 
child's." 

"I  see.  It's  rather  good,  that.  So  your  thoughts 
are  round  and  white,  Lawrence  ?" 

She  shook  her  head,  her  eyes  suddenly  as  wet  as  even 
the  roses  round  her. 

"No,  Clow.  They  have  been  black  and  oblong — with 
hard  edges  and  corners  that  cut " 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "Poor  old  girl,"  he 
said,  gently,  "I'm  sorry.  Let's  get  in  out  of  the 
rain." 


XXT 

DORSET,  explaining  that  his  wife  was  out,  asked 
his  friend  to  come  into  the  study.  "There's 
a  fire,"  he  added,  as  an  inducement. 

"Amy  out  at  eleven  o'clock !" 

He  raised  his  somber  eyes  to  hers  and  was  silent  for 
a  second  before  he  answered. 

"Yes,"  he  then  said,  slowly,  "she  has  gone  to  her 
dentist." 

There  was  another  pause,  during  which  she  could  not 
decide  whether  the  expression  in  his  dogged  eyes  meant 
entreaty  or  defiance. 

She  shrugged  her  thin  shoulders  and  sat  down.  "I'm 
sorry  to  miss  her,"  she  said.  "I  haven't  seen  her  for 
several  days." 

"She's  very  busy.     Will  you  lunch  with  us?" 

She  shook  her  head,  from  which  she  had  taken  her 
hat,  and  smoothed  the  rough  black  hair  in  which  the 
few  white  ones  shone  out  like  good  deeds  in  a  naughty 
world. 

"Can't,  thanks.     Lunching  with  Vera  Undershaft." 

She  liked  the  library,  which  was  old-fashioned  and 
114 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

comfortable.  There  were  in  it,  besides  several  thousand 
books,  many  things  sympathetic  to  her ;  there  were  pipes 
and  easy  chairs,  and  a  large,  sensible  writing-table  on 
which  stood  a  shabby  despatch-box.  A  week-old  Aber- 
deen might  at  a  pinch  have  been  drowned  in  the  ink-well, 
and  there  was  a  huge  waste-paper  basket,  nearly  as  big 
as  poor  Lawrence's  whole  sitting-room. 

She  loved,  too,  the  portrait  of  Amy  as  a  young  wife, 
done  in  a  charming  way  by  a  rather  inferior  artist,  that 
hung  on  the  one  blank  wall. 

"I  love  that,"  she  said  suddenly,  nodding  at  it. 

"So  do  I.     It's  exactly  like  her." 

For  a  moment  they  stood  looking  at  the  pretty  girl 
in  the  gold  frame,  silent. 

Miss  Croxley  broke  the  silence.  "Clow — tell  me  about 
her,  then." 

The  people  whom  her  disagreeable  expression  had  of- 
fended in  the  bus  would,  had  they  at  that  moment  been 
flies  on  the  wall  of  Dorset's  library,  hardly  have  recog- 
nized her  as  she  spoke,  so  much  sweetness  and  even  be- 
nevolence was  there  in  her  harsh  face. 

The  library  windows  gave  on  Wessex  Street,  and  Dor- 
set, as  he  tried  to  marshal  his  thoughts  in  order  to  do 
as  she  had  asked  him,  gazed  silently  at  the  rain  against 
the  dull  background  of  the  houses  opposite.  When  in 
London  there  comes  a  momentary  lull  in  the  roar  of 
the  traffic,  it  seems  a  tangible  thing.  And  such  a  lull 

115 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

happened  now  and  in  it  the  middle-aged  man  began  his 
description  of  the  wife  of  his  youth. 

"She  was,"  he  said  slowly,  his  voice  loud  in  the  pat- 
ter of  the  rain,  "just  like  that.  Very  pretty,  very 
ignorant,  very  simple.  And,"  he  hesitated,  "very  good." 

"She  is  always  good." 

"Yes.  She  knew  little.  Her  father  had  never  both- 
ered much  about  her,  and  her  mother  had  already  been 
dead  some  years.  I  remember  how  surprised  she  was 
to  find  that  Queen  Anne  was  married.  She  said,"  for 
a  moment  his  inexpressive  face  relaxed  to  a  half  smile, 
"that  Anne  is  such  an  unmarried  name." 

Lawrence  nodded.  "So  it  is !  And — she  was  twenty 
when  you  married  her,  wasn't  she?" 

Yes.  We  went  to  the  Lakes  for  our  wedding  journey, 
and  it  poured  all  the  time." 

"And  then,"  she  insisted  gently,  for  he  was  busy  light- 
ing a  pipe,  "where  did  you  live  ?" 

He  threw  the  match  away  and  after  a  puff  or  two 
at  his  pipe,  began  coaxing  the  fire  with  the  poker. 

"We  lived  in  Ambles  in  Sussex." 

"Ambles.    Is  it  a  house?" 

"No.  It's  a  small  town,  not  far  from  Chichester. 
I  owned — still  own,  in  fact — a  house  there — left  me  by 
a-n  old  aunt  of  my  mother's.  There's  a  picture  of  it 
just  over  your  shoulder." 

She  turned,  and  saw,  in  a  tarnished  gold  frame,  a 
116 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

little  pencil  and  chalk  drawing  that  in  its  dark  corner 
in  the  lea  of  the  jutting  mantelpiece  she  had  never 
noticed. 

"Take  it  down,"  he  said,  and  she  did  so. 

The  drawing,  which  was  very  badly  done,  represented 
a  plain  Georgian  house  flush  with  the  pavement.  The 
door,  which  had  a  portico  supported  by  fluted  pillars, 
was  at  the  top  of  a  flight  of  six  steps ;  the  windows 
were  large  and  there  were  two  on  either  side  of  the 
door. 

The  front  of  the  house  was  covered  with  ivy  which 
was  trimmed  with  great  exactitude  into  squares  round 
the  windows.  To  the  left  a  wall  extended,  and  over  the 
wall  woolly  and  indistinguishable  trees  stretched  up  into 
a  sky  equally  woolly,  but  very  blue. 

Lawrence  Croxley's  heart  contracted.  It  was  here 
that  this  dull,  middle-aged  man  whom  she  loved,  had 
brought  his  young  wife  fifteen  years  ago. 

Fifteen  years  ago  she  herself  had  been  living  at  Crux- 
worth  with  her  father  and  mother  still  in  luxury  al- 
though a  shorn  and  diminishing  luxury.  She  had  already 
refused,  to  her  father's  rage,  the  only  marriage  offer 
she  had  ever  had,  before  or  since,  and  her  mother's 
wearing,  terrible,  apparently  endless  last  illness  had  be- 
gun. And  across  the  hills  to  the  south,  unknown  even 
as  to  his  very  name,  Cloudesley  Dorset  was  beginning 
his  life  with  the  wife  he  had  chosen. 

117 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"It's — a  dear  old  house,"  she  said,  suddenly,  her 
voice  sounding  very  loud  to  her,  though  not,  to  all  ap- 
pearances, to  him. 

"Yes.  There  was  a  mulberry  tree  behind  the  house, 
a  large  tree,  said  to  have  been  planted  by  Charles  II. 
She  was  so  pleased  when  I  told  her  that  it's  called  the 
mulberry,  the  wisest  of  trees,  because  it  does  not  risk 
its  new  leaves  till  all  danger  of  frost  is  over." 

"Was  the  garden  pretty?" 

"Yes.  My  aunt  Sybilla  loved  flowers  and  had  worked 
hard  over  it." 

Lawrence  drew  near  to  the  fire.    "Did  she  like  it  too  ?" 

"You  mean  Amy?  Yes.  Yes,"  he  added,  gravely, 
"she  used  to  be  fond  of  the  garden." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  Miss  Croxley  rose, 
suddenly.  "Well,  I  must  be  off,"  she  exclaimed  with 
great  briskness;  "tell  Amy  I'm  sorry  to  have  missed 
her." 

They  shook  hands,  and  he  opened  the  door.  In  the 
hall,  which  at  that  end  of  the  house  was,  that  dull  day, 
rather  dark,  Dorset  said,  "By  the  way,  Lawrence,  I 
want  you  to  do  me  a  favor." 

"Right.    What  is  it?" 

"I  want  you  to  come  and  dine  with  us  tonight1 — 
here." 

She  reflected.  "Let  me  see,  this  is  Tuesday,  isn't  it? 
I'm  sorry,  Clow,  but  I'm  afraid  I  can't.  I've  promised 

118 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Basil  Humphreys  to  chaperon  a  girl  and  him  to  His 
Majesty's." 

Dorset  stood  still,  his  face  indistinct  in  the  faint 
light.  "Ask  Basil  to  get  someone  else.  He  has  three 
sisters." 

"I  know,  but " 

"Look  here,  Lawrence,"  he  went  on,  taking  her  hand 
in  his,  "I  said  it  would  be  a  great  favor,  and  it  will. 
I  am  very  much  troubled — about  Amy — and  I  want — 
I  need — your  help." 

She  knew  by  his  voice  that  he  was  deeply  moved,  and 
for  a  moment  her  heart  throbbed  in  a  wild  way.  Could 
it  be  the  touch  of  her  hand  that  so  stirred  him? 

Then  with  a  mental  shake  she  regained,  as  she  after- 
wards regarded  it,  her  senses;  at  last  she  was  feeling 
something  vital  about  his  wife.  Honestly,  she  tried  to 
be  glad. 

"I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  to  help  Amy,  Clow," 
she  answered  steadily,  "but  I  promised  Basil " 

"You  must  put  him  off.    You  will?" 

"Yes." 

With  a  gentle  pressure  he  released  her  hand.  "You 
are — a  good  sort,"  he  said.  "Thanks.  Half-past  eight, 
then." 

"All  right.  I'll  telephone  Basil.  And — who  else  is 
coming?  Is  it  a  big  party?" 

They  had  reached  the  door  giving  into  Wessex  Street, 
119 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

and  before  answering  her  question  Dorset  hailed  a  pass- 
ing taxi  and  put  her  into  it. 

"Thanks  again,"  he  said,  closing  the  door. 

"And — how  big  a  party?  So  that  I  shall  know," 
she  went  on  hurriedly,  "what  to  wear." 

He  looked  at  her.  "There  is  no  party,  Lawrence. 
It's  only  Amy — and  you — and  me — and — Hood." 


XXII 

DEAREST, 

I  am  awfully  worried  and  badly  frightened.  Cloudesley 
has  just  told  me  that  you  are  coming  to  dinner — you  and 
Lawrence  Croxley.  What  can  it  mean? 

I  told  him  this  morning  that  I  should  be  at  home  tonight, 
then  an  hour  later  he  sent  word  by  my  maid  that  he  had 
asked  a  friend  to  dine,  and  just  now  he's  told  me  that  it  is 
you — "the  friend"  !  What  can  it  mean  ?  Can  he  suspect 
anything,  do  you  think  ?  Oh,  I  am  so  frightened. 

My  beloved,  I  shall  be  so  glad  when  we  no  longer  have 
to  lie !  God  bless  you,  my  dearest  dear.  Perhaps  we  can 
have  five  minutes'  talk  alone  tonight,  for  Lawrence  often 
goes  to  his  study  with  him.  I  love  you. 

AMY. 

Captain  Hood  read  this  note  at  seven  that  evening. 
It  was  brought  to  him  by  the  excellent  Millipede,  and 
read  under  the  fire  of  two  angry  eyes  under  a  beflowered 
hat. 

"No  answer,  thanks,  Millipede." 

When  the  door  had  closed  the  owner  of  the  angry 
eyes — she  also  owned  a  redundant  figure  and  a  great 
deal  of  native  and  foreign  hair  of  a  fine  amber  hue — 
burst  out. 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"That  letter's  from  a  woman,  Archie  Hood. 

He  put  it  into  his  pocket.  "It  is,  my  dear.  What 
then?" 

"It's— it's  a  love-letter." 

He  lit  a  cigarette,  laughing  as  he  did  so. 

"My  name  is  Don  Juan,"  he  declared,  "I  am  the 
ladies'  pet;  my  beauty  is  fatal,  to  see  me  is  to  love 
me " 

She,  however,  refused  to  laugh.  "You  are  deceiving 
me,"  she  snapped.  "I  know  you  are.  You  are  lying 
to  me." 

"But  I  have  just  told  you,"  he  teased,  his  beautiful 
dark  eyes  glowing  with  malicious  amusement,  "that  my 
name  is  Don  Juan!" 

She  leaned  towards  him,  her  tight  stays  creaking  a 
little,  a  dull  flush  creeping  up  her  throat  to  her  unde- 
niable double  chin.  "Archie — show  me  that  letter.  I 
have  a  right  to  see  it." 

The  light  died  out  of  his  face  and  he  frowned. 

"My  dear  Alys,  don't  be  an — a  goose,"  he  retorted, 
as  civilly  as  he  could.  "I  certainly  will  not  show  you 
my  letter,  and  you  have  no  right  to  ask  me  to.  I  have 
never  asked  to  see  yours." 

"That's  because  you  don't  care !  You  don't  love  me 
any  more — I  don't  believe  you  ever  did  love  me.  You 
have  lied  and  deceived  me  from  the  first !" 

His  morals  were  indefensible,  but  it  is  certainly  to 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

his  credit  that  he  did  not  make  one  of  several  answers 
that  occurred  to  him. 

He  did  not  remind  her  that  their  cursory  love  affair 
had  been  more  of  her  seeking  than  of  his;  he  did  not 
recall  to  her  mind  the  fact  that  she  was  well  over  ten 
years  older  than  he;  he  made  no  reference  to  the  cir- 
cumstance that,  although  she  was  a  widow  of  several 
years'  standing,  he  had  never  in  the  most  remote  way 
hinted  to  her  that  his  feelings  were  of  the  kind  that  lead 
to  matrimony. 

Neither — and  perhaps,  to  a  man  of  his  spoiled  and 
impatient  nature  this,  of  all  these  reserves,  was  the  most 
praiseworthy — did  he  tell  her  the  truth:  that  he  was 
utterly  sick  of  her,  and  would  have  ceased  seeing  her 
long  ago,  but  for  a  genuine  kind-hearted  dread  of  hurt- 
ing her ! 

As  the  devoted  Millipede  had  said,  Captain  Hood  un- 
deniably had  two  good  points. 

What  he  did  say,  after  a  pause,  was,  "My  dear  Alys, 
I  am  dining  out,  and  fear  that  I  must  go  and  dress." 

"Where  are  you  dining?" 

He  looked  at  her  too  fat  face,  with  its  incipient  chops 
and  purplish  bloom,  and  a  feeling  of  sincere  self-disgust 
came  over  him.  "Why  on  earth  did  I  ever  even  look 
at  you?"  he  reflected,  adding  more  kindly,  "You  poor 
old  thing !"  However,  he  had  looked  at  her  and — there 
she  was. 

123 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"I'm  dining  at  the  Brook-Bellwood's  in  Belgrave 
Square,"  he  lied  suavely.  "Their  telephone  number  is 
6801  Victoria  if  you'd  like  to  make  inquiries !" 

She  sighed,  and  producing  that  friend  in  need,  a  pow- 
der-puff, began  to  repair  the  dilapidations  of  tears  and 
temper. 

"I'm  sorry,  Beau-boy,"  she  said,  "it's  only  because 
I  love  you  so.  I  have  given  you  my  whole  life,  you 
know." 

And  again  he  achieved  merit — this  time  by  not 
suggesting  that  as  she  was  forty-eight  and  he  had 
known  her  only  about  six  months,  he  could  hardly 
claim  the  possession  of  what  was  known  as  her  best 
years.  Instead,  and  in  his  relief  at  her  descent  to 
earth,  he  was  very  kind  to  her,  kissing  her  good- 
bye, patting  her  hands,  and  thanking  her  for  coming 
to  see  him. 

At  the  door  she  turned.  "Beau-boy — couldn't  we 
dine  tomorrow — at  La  Mandolina?" 

"I— I  fear " 

A  few  years  ago  her  upturned,  pleading  face  would 
possibly  have  been  irresistible.  Now,  it  was  at  best  only 
pathetic.  "Darling,  I  have  been  so  unhappy,  fearing 
you'd  stopped  coming — do  say  yes,  and  we'll  have  spa- 
ghetti and  white  truffle  salads  and  zabajoni !" 

He  winced.  The  ghosts  of  old  meals  can  haunt  and 
hurt  a  sensitive  soul,  and  in  his  way  Hood  was  sensi- 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

tive.     He  was  also  not  ungrateful,  and  she  had  in  a 
way  pleased  him,  only  a  few  months  before. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  reluctantly,  "I'll  try  to  arrange 
it.  At  seven-thirty  then,  upstairs." 

She  was  all  smiles.  "Oh,  you  dear,"  she  cried  girl- 
ishly, "what  fun  it'll  be.  And — darling — you  do  love 
me?" 

It  was  part  of  his  code,  such  as  it  was,  that  Hood, 
in  his  incidental  liaisons,  avoided  as  much  as  possible 
the  word  love.  After  all,  the  utterance  of  the  word  is 
by  no  means  always  a  necessity  in  the  most  passionate 
scenes. 

And  now,  when  he  did  really  love  Amy  Dorset,  he 
felt  a  thrill  of  self-approbation  as  he  realized  his  skill 
in  having  so  little  degraded  the  word  he  devoted  to  her. 
It  is  characteristic  of  him  that  his  having  degraded  the 
sentiment  itself  in  his  thousand  and  one  simulations  of 
it  gave  him  not  a  pang. 

With  a  tender  smile  he  kissed  Alys  Lowndes'  hand. 
"Dear,"  he  murmured,  "my  feeling  for  you  is  something 
I  can't  easily  talk  about — even  to  you." 

Then,  finally,  she  left,  and  he  went  into  his  dressing- 
room,  where  Millipede  was  busy. 

"Get  me  a  gin  and  vermouth,  Millipede,"  he  said.  "I 
—I'm  tired." 

Millipede  ventured  a  sympathetic  half-grin,  and  went 
to  mix  this  drink. 

125 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"I  think,"  Hood  told  him,  setting  down  the  empty 
glass,  "that  I  shall  be  out  the  next  time  that  lady 
comes." 

The  man  nodded.    "Very  good,  sir." 


XXIII 

AS  dinner  went  on  Mrs.  Dorset  grew  more  confident 
that  her  vague  fear  had  been  unfounded,  and 
in  consequence  of  this  feeling  her  manner  be- 
came easier  and  less  constrained. 

She  had  had  a  bad  afternoon,  her  usual  rest  being 
changed,  as  it  had  been  changed  more  than  once  of 
late,  into  a  period  of  mental  stress  of  a  force  that 
threatened  to  annihilate  her  former  conception  of 
things. 

She  loved  Archie  Hood,  and  looking  into  the  future 
she  could  see  only  him,  but  her  brain  was  not  well 
enough  focused  to  make  her  vision  clear.  How  or  when 
they  were  to  be  together  she  could  not  even  guess;  all 
she  knew  was  that  they  would,  must,  be  always  to- 
gether. 

She  was  one  of  those  modern  products,  a  woman 
without  either  much  practical  sense  or  much  imagina- 
tion ;  she  had  a  variety  of  small,  superficial  tastes  which 
she  herself  believed  to  be  convictions,  but  she  had  never 
channeled  her  forces,  and  now,  at  a  great  crisis,  her 
mental  powers  were  beyond  her  control. 

127 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

She  did  not  know  what  she  meant  to  do;  in  fact 
there  was  nothing  which  she  definitely  meant  to  do ;  she 
subconsciously  meant  things  to  do  themselves.  She  was 
an  empty  cup  held  up  for  Chance  to  fill. 

When  she  was  at  last  dressed  for  dinner,  a  little 
more  color  than  usual  on — not  in — her  cheeks,  a  long 
string  of  pale  corals  round  her  neck  as  more  propitious 
to  her  looks  than  pearls,  she  sent  Clementine  out  of  the 
room  and  stood  for  a  moment  before  the  glass.  Anx- 
iously she  scanned  herself.  Pale,  yes — tired,  yes.  Hag- 
gard, thank  God,  no. 

Her  frock  was  perfection,  her  hair  in  its  happiest 
mood. 

"I  wonder,"  she  thought,  "what  is  going  to  happen. 
I  wonder  why  Clow  invited  Archie?  I'm  glad  poor  old 
Lawrence  will  be  here,  in  any  case." 

Unconsciously  she  realized  that  even  if  a  highly  im- 
probable battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death  were  to  en- 
sue, Lawrence  Croxley  would  stand  by  her. 

When  men  descant  on  the  untrustworthiness  of 
women  to  women  they  should  remember  that  nearly 
every  beautiful  woman  who  ever  lived  has  possessed  a 
woman  friend  of  Lawrence's  kind. 

Amy  met  her  guests  without  betraying  her  inner  tur- 
moil, and  watched  her  husband  as  he  greeted  them. 

Dorset  looked  tired,  and  had  at  first  little  to  say. 

Miss  Croxley  was  arrayed  in  all  the  glories  of  a  new 
128 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

frock  and  looked,  according  to  her  possibilities,  very 
well  indeed. 

She  was  one  of  those  thin  women  who  look  their  best 
with  their  bony  structures  well  exposed ;  the  lines  of  her 
shoulders  were  good,  and  her  long  throat  carried  with 
an  odd,  gypsy-like  grace  her  small  well-set  head.  For 
some  reason,  unexpressed  even  to  herself,  she  had  chosen 
to  wear  the  necklace  that  night,  and  it  was  very  worth- 
ily, though  not  softly,  bedded  in  her  brown  bosom. 

In  her  cheeks  was  a  deep  flame  of  natural  color,  and 
as  she  bowed  politely  to  Hood,  this  color  seemed  to  leap 
up  for  an  instant  in  a  way  that  only  Dorset  observed. 

"You  are  looking,"  he  said  to  her  as  they  went  in  to 
dinner,  "splendid." 

Again  the  color  leapt,  though  she  laughed.  "Clow! 
If  you  take  to  making  compliments  the  solid  earth  will 
crumble  away  under  my  feet." 

The  talk  was  general  and  meaningless. 

Of  the  four  who  partook  of  it,  only  Hood  knew  what 
he  was  eating,  and  he  was  one  of  those  lucky  people  of 
preeminent  digestions  and  manly,  non-existent  nerves 
who  make  excellent  breakfasts  on  their  hanging  day. 

To  him  the  salmon,  the  game,  the  champagne  and  the 
rest  had  even  more  than  their  usual  savor  because  of  the 
undefined  element  of  danger  that  seemed  to  brood  in 
the  room. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  meal,  his  opinion  of  the  situa- 
129 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

tion  was  that  Dorset  certainly  must  smell  a  rat  of  some 
kind,  but  could  probably  be  put  off  the  scent  by  a  little 
exercise  of  the  ingenuity  that  had  in  the  matter  of  hus- 
bands done  its  possessor  such  yeoman's  service. 

A  few  weeks'  absence  might  do  it,  or  a  hint  as  to  a 
half-engagement  to  Etheldreda  Yelverton,  a  second- 
cousin  whom  the  gods  evidently  intended  him  to  marry 
some  fine  day ;  or  if  necessary  someone  with  a  taste  for 
situation-molding  might  be  told  about  Beryl  Spottis- 
woode.  With  a  guiltless  face  and  an  inward  chuckle, 
Hood  told  himself  that  no  man's  name  could  escape  un- 
scathed from  even  the  most  careless  linking  with 
naughty  Beryl's. 

"If  I  told  this  old  living  skeleton,"  he  decided,  smil- 
ing courteously  at  Lawrence,  who  was  speaking  to  him, 
"or  better  still,  had  someone  else  tell  her,  she'd  trek  over 
here  first  thing  and  tell  Dorset."  So  his  mind  was  beau- 
tifully easy. 

Dorset's  was  not.  He  knew  that  his  wife  was  for 
the  first  time  in  her  rather  pathetic,  emotionally  limited 
life  deeply  in  love.  And  he  was  frightened  for  her.  He 
disliked  and  distrusted  Archie  Hood  for  one  thing,  and 
he  realized  far  more  than,  in  the  plenitude  of  her  new 
happiness,  Amy  did,  what  in  this  matter  she  stood  to 
lose. 

He  was  deeply  sorry  for  her,  and  having  asked  Hood 
to  dine  with  the  intention  of  trying  to  see  exactly  how 

130 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

matters  stood,  he  had  asked  Lawrence  Croxley  not 
only  because  he  had  of  late  grown  very  fond  of  her, 
but  because  he  felt  that  in  the  event  of  any  precipitated 
crisis,  she  would  be  a  comfort  to  his  wife. 

As  for  Lawrence,  she  was  very  much  agitated,  and 
could  have  screamed  with  nerves  and  irritation  several 
times  during  the  dinner. 

Of  all  the  people  in  the  room  the  one  who  had  the 
coolest  judgment  and  the  most  unbiased  view  of  the 
situation  was  the  butler. 

Immenham  knew  of  his  mistress's  visit  to  Captain 
Hood's  rooms ;  the  impish  Millipede  had  taken  great  de- 
light in  telling  him.  He  also  knew  that  daily  letters 
were  exchanged  between  Mrs.  Dorset  and  Hood,  and 
that  the  matutinal  box  of  violets  from  Solomon's  was 
sent  by  Hood. 

These  things  constituted  a  disquieting  whole,  but  the 
dignified,  observant  man  knew  more. 

He  knew  that  the  lady  he  served  was  wasting  her 
heart  on  an  altogether  unworthy  man. 

He  knew  this,  was  constrained  to  look  on  at  the 
tragedy,  and  was  powerless  to  help. 

He  was  the  cleverest,  most  sensitive  man  of  those 
present  in  the  room — for  pie-faced  William's  successor 
going  in  and  out,  did  not  count — but  he  was  a  servant, 
and  therefore  could  do  nothing  to  avert  the  catastrophe. 

And  this,  as  well,  was  in  its  way  a  tragedy. 
131 


XXIV 

WHEN  they  were  alone,  Amy  walked  to  Hood 
and  drew  him  out  of  his  chair.  "O  Archie," 
she  murmured,  "I  am  so  happy!" 

"Mind  the  door,"  he  retorted  sharply ;  "someone  will 
be  coming  in." 

The  little  creature,  all  aglow,  laughed  aloud.  "No 
they  won't,  dearest.  Besides — what  would  it  matter?" 

For  a  long  time  he  silently  held  her  in  his  arms ;  in 
his  arms  not  in  the  way  usually  meant  by  the  phrase, 
but  literally,  for  she  was  so  slim,  so  light,  that  she  was 
as  easy  to  lift  as  a  child,  and  there  was  to  him  a  subtle 
and  sensuous  charm  in  this  holding,  close  to  his  breast, 
her  little  feet  hanging  over  his  arm,  the  woman  whom 
he  loved  and  who  loved  him  in  such  an  unchildlike 
way. 

When  he  at  last  set  her  down,  she  smoothed  her  hair 
with  absent,  skillful  fingers.  "What  an  awful  dinner," 
she  said,  "wasn't  it  ?" 

"Ghastly.    I  can't  bear  Miss  Croxley." 

She  was  surprised.  "Lawrence?  But  why,  Archie? 
She's  such  a  dear." 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"I  don't  like  her." 

"You  must  try — just  to  please  me,"  she  wheedled, 
"for  she's  one  of  my  best  friends." 

"Sorry,  but  I  really  can't  bear  her." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  she  said  slowly,  "/  am 
sorry,  dearest.  She  is  one  of  the  people  who  will  always 
remain  my  friend,  even  if " 

"Even  if  what?"  His  splendid  eyes  had  assumed  an 
unpleasantly  watchful  look,  which  she  did  not  see. 

Immenham  at  that  moment  coming  in  with  a  tele- 
gram, she  answered  evenly,  enjoying,  he  saw,  the  touch 
of  acting.  "Even  if  everyone  else  disapproves  about 
Psyche." 

Psyche  was  one  of  his  pet  names  for  her. 

As  she  read  the  wire  and  wrote  an  answer,  the  butler 
stood  at  attention,  but  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  small 
mirror  in  which  Hood's  face  was  reflected.  And  when 
the  door  had  closed  on  the  servant,  and  Mrs.  Dorset 
had  once  more  sat  down,  she  took  up  the  subject  of 
Lawrence  again. 

"I  think,"  she  began,  "that  dear  old  Lawrence 
knows." 

"I  know  that  dear  old  Lawrence  knows." 

"I — I  am  glad,"  Amy  said,  thoughtfully. 

"Why?" 

"It  will  make  it  easier — afterwards." 

Hood  rose  with  a  brusqueness  that  startled  her. 
133 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Will  you  come  tomorrow  at  four?"  he  asked  her. 

"Oh,  I— I  cant." 

"Darling!  I — I  have  some  books  I  want  to  show 
you." 

He  had  been  vaguely  uneasy  a  moment  before,  but 
something  in  her  face  set  him  ablaze,  and  ensued  an 
outwardly  beautiful  love-scene,  passionately  reverent 
and  reverently  passionate,  though  on  his  part  conduct- 
ed with,  so  to  speak,  an  eye  on  the  door.  At  the 
worst,  Archie  Hood  was  a  love-making  expert,  and 
now  at  his  best  he  gave  a  magnificent  representation 
of  a  man  ready  to  count  the  world  well  lost  for 
Love. 

The  best  of  it  was  that  he  believed  in  himself,  with 
his  whole  heart,  and  for  the  moment  utterly  forgot  his 
half-fears  of  a  few  minutes  before. 

When  the  moment  came  when  Amy,  having  promised 
to  go  to  tea  with  him  the  next  day,  for  the  purpose  as 
she  believed,  to  settle  the  future,  asked  him  with  her 
exquisite  face  all  a-quiver  with  love  and  trust,  if  he  had 
ever  loved  anyone  before,  he  assured  her,  his  eyes  shin- 
ing like  stars,  that  he  never  had. 

"You  know  one  hears  awful  tales  about  you,  darling," 
she  said,  a  little  later. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Oh,  I've  sown  a  few 
wild  oats — like  other  men,  but  it  meant  nothing." 

"And — and — "  she  was  a  little  shy  about  asking, 
134 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

but  she  forced  herself  to  do  so,  "there  is  no  one  now?1* 

And  he  swore  passionately  that  she  was  the  only 
woman  in  his  life. 

How  far  he  believed  himself  to  be  speaking  the  truth 
no  one  can  tell,  but  it  may  be  taken  for  a  fact  that  he 
was  not  lying  unqualifiedly. 

And  yet  separated  from  her  indiscreetly  placed  head 
only  by  one  thickness  of  fine  black  cloth,  and  one  of  thin 
silk,  there  were  letters  from  three  different  women  each 
one  of  whom  loved  him  and  had  every  reason  herself  to 
be  loved  by  him !  However,  Amy,  in  her  ignorance,  was 
as  happy  as  if  he  had  been  the  honorable  man  he  hon- 
estly believed  himself  to  be. 

Meantime  in  the  library  Lawrence  and  Dorset  sat 
smoking,  and  very  earnestly  talking. 

Dorset  had  made  up  his  mind  at  dinner  as  to  what 
he  would  do,  and  according  to  his  way  had  done  it 
promptly  and  unpicturesquely. 

"Amy's  in  love  with  that  fellow,  Lawrence,"  he  had 
said,  as  he  blew  out  the  match  with  which  he  had  lit  her 
first  cigarette. 

In  her  nervousness  she  gave  a  great  start.  "Good 
heavens,  Cloudesley !" 

"Yes.    And  you  know  it." 

After  a  moment  she  retorted,  "Well,  what  then?" 

He  gave  a  short  laugh.  "She's  at  the  wrong  age  for 
her  first  love  affair." 

135 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Every  one  is !  The  first  one  ought  to  be  saved  up 
for  the  third,"  she  said,  incoherently. 

This  he  disregarded.  "I've  been  watching  him  to- 
night especially.  That's  why  I  got  him  here — to  study 
him." 

She  looked  up.     "Well?" 

He  answered  deliberately,  neither  kindly  nor  un- 
kindly. 

"I  don't  think  he's  worth  it,  Lawrence." 

The  sound  she  made  might  be  called  a  snort. 

"I  should  think  he  wasn't,  Clow!" 

"Oh— you  dislike  him?" 

"I  detest  him.  He's  a  contemptible  cad,"  she  cried, 
jerking  her  cigarette  into  the  fire. 

Dorset  reflected.  "No — I  shouldn't  go  so  far  as 
that.  Men  seem  to  like  him,  and  men  never  like  a  fel- 
low who  is  really  a  cad,  you  know." 

"Perhaps  you  like  him,  then  ?" 

Even  the  scorn  in  her  voice,  which  was  rather  funny, 
did  not  stir  him  out  of  what  she  stigmatized  as  his  slug- 
gish justice. 

"I  don't  like  him.  I  know  nothing  about  the  fellow, 
but — he's  very  much  in  love  with  Amy,  but  I  fear  he'll 
make  her  suffer.  And,"  his  voice  softened,  "the  poor 
little  thing  has  never  suffered." 

"No,"  Lawrence's  voice  was  far  more  pitiful  than 
his. 

136 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"I'm  going  to  speak  to  her  about  it  tonight,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"Oh,  Clow!     Why— accentuate  it?" 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,"  she  faltered,  "that  your  discussing  it  will 
— crystallize  it — you  can't  ever  disregard  it  again " 

Dorset  frowned.  "Nonsense.  Amy  and  I  are  per- 
fectly good  friends,  and  friends  can  discuss — anything." 

Then  she  took  her  courage  in  both  hands  and  asked 
him  a  question.  "But — don't  you  mind?  Don't  you — 
love  her?" 

An  odd  smile  stirred  his  mustache  as  he  gazed  for 
a  long  minute  into  the  fire.  "Don't  mind?  My  dear, 
Amy  never  loved  me." 

"Yes — but  you?  You  are  different.  Don't  you  love 
her?" 

"No.     I  haven't  loved  her  for  years." 

She  made  a  little  muffled  sound  like  a  moan. 

"OClow!" 

"Not  for  years.  Indeed,  I  have,"  he  went  on  quietly, 
as  if  he  were  discussing  some  rather  dull  business  deal, 
"been  wondering  whether,  in  the  event  of  Amy's  marry- 
ing Hood,  I  could  ever  persuade  you  to  marry  me." 

The  room  literally  swam  before  Lawrence's  eyes — as 
rooms  sometimes  do — the  floor  touched  the  ceiling  and 
slowly  descended  and  steadied  into  its  usual  place. 

"Me !" 

137 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

He  smiled  gravely.  "Have  I  shocked  you?  Yes, 
you.  I  am  fonder  of  you  than  of  anyone  alive,  Law- 
rence ;  we  have  the  same  tastes,  we  are  the  same  age — 
I  was  far  too  old  for  Amy — and,"  he  ended  unexpect- 
edly, with  great  vehemence,  "I'd  trust  you  with  my  im- 
mortal soul." 

In  her  turbulent,  mad,  unhoped-for  happiness  she 
dared  not  even  try  to  speak  for  a  moment. 

At  last  she  said,  "This  seems  like  some  perfectly  mad 
dream,  Clow — and  after  all,  we  came  in  here  to  try  to 
help  Amy,  didn't  we  ?" 

He  bowed  his  head.  "Yes,  we  did.  I  beg  your  par- 
don, I  won't  refer  to — to  the  other  matter  again." 


XXV 

WHEN  Dorset,  a  little  later,  put  Miss  Croxley 
into  a  taxi,  Iraraenham  of  course  stood  at  the 
door. 

He  was  the  most  perfect  of  butlers,  and  it  is  one  of 
the  paradoxes  of  domestic  life  that  the  more  perfect  a 
butler  is  the  less  he  is  regarded  by  his  employers  as  a 
human  being. 

Dorset  talked  before  him  almost  as  freely  as  he 
talked  in  his  absence,  yet  he  would  have  been  amazed 
to  hear  that  his  butler  knew  nearly  as  much  of  the 
affairs  of  875  as  he  did  himself. 

"Then  you  really  think  I  had  better  wait  until  she 
speaks  to  me,"  Dorset  said  to  his  guest  as  they  went 
out  into  the  warm  evening. 

"I  do,  Clow.  She's  certain  to  tell  you,  and — if  she 
does  it  will  be  so  much  better — better  for  her,  I 
mean." 

Immenham's  serious  eyes  rested  on  the  speaker's 
face  with  repressed  amazement.  She  was  almost  hand- 
some, as  she  stood  there,  the  emeralds  glowing  on  her 
breast,  and  a  new  expression  glowing  in  her  eyes. 

139 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Never  had  he  seen  her  look  like  that,  and  he  won- 
dered what  had  happened. 

Half  an  hour  before  he  had  let  Captain  Hood  out, 
and  his  expression  had  been  far  easier  to  analyze.  The 
butler  knew  quite  well  what  it  meant,  and  as  he  whistled 
for  a  taxi  his  mind  was  full  of  a  mixture  of  hatred  and 
scorn  that  would  have  mightily  surprised  the  happy 
lover. 

And  now  Dorset  was  saying,  quite  without  either 
hatred  or  scorn,  "He  certainly  is  a  very  handsome  fel- 
low, Lawrence." 

She  laughed  and  got  into  the  taxi.  "Oh,  yes,"  she  an- 
swered, her  face  in  the  open  window,  "he's  handsome 
enough.  But — "  and  Immenham  saw  her  eyes  darken, 
"I  don't  trust  him." 

Dorset  lowered  his  voice  a  little.  "No.  But — we 
both  know  her.  What  she  wants  she  must  have.  Noth- 
ing on  earth  can  stop  her." 

The  chauffeur,  a  beery-eyed  old  fellow,  obviously  a 
survival  of  the  growler  cabby  tribe,  climbed  to  his  seat 
and  looked  round. 

"Wait  a  moment,  chauffeur!  Dear  Lawrence,  you 
have  been  so  good  tonight — I  can't  imagine  what  we 
should  do  without  you " 

She  smiled  at  the  unconscious  "we,"  but  she  also 
winced  a  little. 

"I've  done  nothing,  Clow.  Good  night.  And — you'll 
140 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

send  me  a  wire  tomorrow.  There's  not  a  bit  of  use  in 
my  saying  a  word,  to  her,  you  know.  Oh,"  she  added 
passionately,  leaning  forward,  and  speaking  louder  in 
her  vehemence,  "if  only  it  was  a  good  man — someone  we 
could  trust!" 

Dorset  gave  one  of  his  rare  laughs,  and  his  glass  fell 
out  of  his  eye.  "We  are  like  two  old  hens,"  he  said, 
"fretting  over  a  duckling!  Besides,  there's  just  a 
chance  that  she  knows  him  better  than  we  do.  After 
all,  he's  a  gentleman,  and  there's  no  doubt  about  his 
caring  for  her." 

And  then  Lawrence  with  a  sudden  "Hush !"  glanced 
towards  the  open  door  and  after  a  few  words  in  a 
whisper,  drove  away. 

Immenham's  face,  as  his  master  passed  him,  was  of 
such  beautiful  blankness  it  was  a  pity  Dorset  did  not 
even  glance  at  him. 

An  hour  later,  Amy  Dorset,  her  hair  brushed  and 
fastened  smoothly  away  from  her  brow,  her  face  gleam- 
ing with  some  kind  of  grease,  her  hands  in  brown  rub- 
ber gloves,  lay  in  bed,  thinking.  In  the  light  of  her 
reading-lamp,  her  eyes  looked  oddly  incomplete  with 
their  lashes  washed  clean  of  their  black  cosmetic,  but 
a  smile  of  happiness  curved  her  pretty  mouth. 

She  was  very  happy.  She  adored  Archie  and  Archie 
adored  her,  so  all  would  be  well.  How,  she  could  not 
yet  quite  see,  but  the  means  hardly  mattered.  Eventu- 

141 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

ally,  largely  by  Dorset's  help  she  felt,  she  and  Archie 
would  be  married.  Then  she  would  always  be  happy. 

There  were  many  things  she  meant  to  do  for  him. 
For  one  she  meant  to  learn  to  darn  his  socks.  It  is 
odd  that  the  spoiled  and  useless  little  creature  should, 
in  her  happiness,  turn  to  the  homely  services  of  love 
rendered  to  their  husbands  by  humble  and  uncosseted 
women. 

She  would  darn  his  socks  and  when  he  came  home  she 
would  run  to  the  door  and  meet  him,  and — and  then 
she  would  put  on  his  slippers! 

The  ridiculous  side  of  this  plan  did  not  appear  to 
her,  for  she  had  little  sense  of  humor. 

She  had  read  of  wives  drawing  off  muddy  boots  and 
substituting  for  them  nicely  toasted  slippers,  and  this 
domestic  picture  appealed  to  her  in  a  curiously  potent 
way. 

"I  suppose,"  she  mused,  "I  ought  to  get  up  for  break- 
fast with  him,  but "  Her  toilette  was  a  matter  too 

complicated  to  be  hurried  through,  so  this  suggestion 
she  rejected,  which  was  just  as  well,  as  Hood  himself 
did  not  eat  breakfast,  and  was  never  out  of  his  room  till 
after  eleven.  They  would  travel,  she  dreamed  on,  they 
would  go  to  Italy  and  Spain  and  all  the  women  would 
envy  her  her  handsome  husband ! 

They  would  have  a  house  in  the  country,  not  too  far 
from  town,  and  motor  up  to  plays  and  parties  and 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

things.     Perhaps  they  had  better  keep  on  Archie's  flat 
— just  a  pied-a-terre. 

(She  loved  scraps  of  French,  and  they  had  become 
so  natural  to  her  that  she  used  them  even  in  her 
thoughts. ) 

Archie  should  help  choose  her  clothes,  as  Charlie  Os- 
woorf  did  for  Nancy. 

Then  her  face  became  rapt  and  serious  and  she 
clasped  her  hands  in  their  brown  gloves.  Her  wedding- 
dress  !  It  couldn't  be  white,  of  course,  and  widows  wore 
gray.  Hers  should  be  yellow — a  pale  golden  color, 
and  -very  simple.  La  ligne  should  be  perfect,  but  there 
should  be  no  fla-fla.  Arthur  should  make  it,  and  Plau- 
9on  the  hat.  The  hat 

Suddenly  she  sat  up  in  bed,  the  color  ebbing  from 
her  little  oily  face  until  it  looked  like  a  mask.  Money ! 
She  would  have  no  money !  And  Archie  was  as  poor  as 
a  church-mouse ! 

Clytemnestra  could  not  have  looked  more  tragic  than 
did  Mrs.  Dorset  in  that  terrible  moment. 

She  had  utterly  forgotten  that  she  possessed  not  a 
penny  of  her  own. 

Dorset  was  so  rich,  and  in  his  uninteresting  way  so 
generous  that  she  had  long  ceased  to  remember  that  all 
the  money  was  his. 

And  now  she  remembered.    It  was  his ! 

Suppose  he  refused  to  give  her  any. 
143 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

What  would  Archie  say?  Of  course  he  wouldn't 
really  mind,  for  he  was  too  noble  to  care  about  such 
things,  but — how  were  they  to  live? 

Suddenly  she  burst  out  laughing  and,  switching  off 
the  light,  settled  herself  for  sleep. 

Of  course  Clow  would  give  her  money.  He  was  so 
rich  that  a  few  thousands  a  year  wouldn't  matter  to 
him,  and  he  always  did  whatever  she  asked  him. 

"Dear  old  Clow,"  she  thought  drowsily,  "he  is  always 
good  to  me." 

Her  fears  of  the  evening  had  gone.  Clow  did  not 
know,  and  when,  as  soon  as  she  could  find  time,  she  told 
him,  everything  would  be  all  right.  Thank  Heaven  he 
would  not  care! 

Her  last  thought  as  she  went  to  sleep  was  that  she 
would  need  rather  a  lot  of  money  to  make  Archie  and 
herself  comfortable,  but  she  must  not  be  greedy.  She 
would  suggest  eight  thousand  pounds  a  year  to  Clow. 


XXVI 

TWO  days  later  the  interview    between  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Cloudesley  Dorset  took  place. 

The  scene  of  action  was  the  library;  the 
hour,  half-past  nine  at  night. 

Dorset  had  waited,  undisturbed  in  his  habits,  until 
his  wife  had  suggested  having  a  talk  with  him,  and 
when  she  came  in  and  sat  down,  as  was  her  wont,  in  the 
largest  chair  in  the  room,  he  said  kindly : 

"Well,  my  dear  ?    And  what  have  you  to  say  to  me  ?" 

In  the  softened  light  she  looked  very  young,  very 
much  a  child,  though  the  delicately  acute  lines  of  her 
nose  and  chin  were  not  those  of  extreme  youth.  She 
wore  a  flesh-colored  tea-gown,  neither  white  nor  pink, 
and  her  lovely  arms  were  bare  but  for  loose  sleeves  of 
a  small-patterned,  transparent  lace. 

He  sat  opposite  her,  his  blood-hound  look  rather  ac- 
centuated by  the  fact  that  he  had  worked  hard  all  day 
and  was  tired. 

"Cloudesley,"  she  began,  and  then — for  she  had  never 
called  him  Cloudesley — he  realized  that  she  was  bent  on 
conducting  the  interview  with  artistic  propriety. 

145 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Yes— Amy?" 

"I  am  very  fond  of  you,  you  know." 

"Are  you,  my  dear?" 

"Yes.  I — know  I  haven't  been  much  of  a  wife  to  you, 
but  then  you  didn't  want  me  to,  did  you?" 

"I  have  never  complained." 

"Exactly.  Well — and  you  have  been  very  good  to 
me.  I — yes,  you  have  been  awfully  good." 

She  paused,  dropping  the  rope  of  pearls  over  her 
little  hands,  and  pulling  it  through  his  fingers. 

"And  now,  Clow,  something  has  happened." 

He  nodded  gravely.     "I  thought  something  had." 

"I — I  wondered  if  you  knew,"  her  voice  faltered  a 
little,  and  she  dropped  the  pearls,  grasping  the  carved 
arms  of  the  chair  and  sitting  bolt  upright. 

"Did  you — did  you  see?" 

He  smiled.  "I  think  you'd  better  go  on,  and  tell  me," 
he  returned.  "I  am  all  attention." 

"All  right."  There  was  a  pause  and  then  she  began 
again. 

"You  remember  when  we  were  first  married?" 

"Yes." 

"When  we  lived  at  Ambles  ?" 

"Yes." 

"We  were  really  quite  fond  of  each  other  then, 
weren't  we?" 

"Yes." 

146 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"I  used  to  think — I — I  loved  you,  Clow.  Really,  I 
mean.  But  I  didn't,  of  course,  and  of  course  you  knew 
I  didn't,  didn't  you?" 

"I  have  known  for  many  years." 

She  smiled  happily  at  him.  "Of  course.  And  you 
didn't  mind,  did  you?  I  mean,  of  course,  our  tastes  were 
BO  different — and  all  that.  You  didn't  mind,  did  you?" 

"No,  Amy." 

"I  am  so  glad.  I  knew  it,  of  course,  but  it  is  good  to 
hear  you  say  it.  And  then  Uncle  Michael  died  and  you 
got  the  money  and  we  came  to  town." 

He  nodded,  puffing  hard  at  his  cigar. 

"Well,  Clow — you  know  how  all  one's  friends  have 
love  affairs,  and  flirtations — well,  I  may  have  had 
a  few  flirtations,  but  I  never  had  any  love  affairs, 
did  I?" 

"Wait  a  minute,  Amy."  Cigar  in  hand,  he  leaned 
towards  her.  "I  have  always  known,"  he  said  slowly, 
"that  you  were — what  is  nowadays  called  a  good 
woman." 

A  little  puzzled  but  pleased,  she  nodded.  "Oh,  yes, 
I  was  always  good.  And  it  wasn't,"  she  went  on  not 
without  a  note  of  pride,  "for  want  of  temptation !  You 
see,  you  didn't  love  me,  so  of  course  you  can't  under- 
stand, but — lots  of  men  have !" 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

"But — well,  you  know !  Besides,  I  always  thought 
147 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

that  kind  of  thing  so  bad  for  one's  looks.  Don't  you 
remember  how  Agatha  Brainton  went  to  pieces  during 
her  affair  with  that  South  American?  And  then,  of 
course,  there's  the  nastiness  of  having  to  lie  and — all 
that." 

"Yes." 

She  had  made  her  plan,  but  now  she  gave  it  up  and 
plunged  into  the  middle  of  things. 

"Clow — I  am  in  love,"  she  said. 

And  looking  at  her  beautifully  radiant  little  face  his 
heart  smote  him.  For  many  years  he  had  regarded  her 
as  a  being,  half  child,  half  nymph,  wholly  irresponsible 
and  spoiled,  and  now  he  realized  what  Pasquier  le 
Breton  had  written  to  his  friend  at  Passy:  that  the 
poor  little  Undine  had,  after  all,  a  soul. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  gently,  in  a  voice  she  had  almost 
forgotten,  "tell  me  about  it." 

And  she  told  him ;  told  him  quite  truthfully  the  whole 
story. 

He  listened  in  the  unbroken  silence  that  achieves  full 
information  so  much  better  than  questions  do,  and 
finally,  her  voice  trembling,  her  eyes  wet  with  tears  that 
even  in  her  genuine  emotion  she  did  not  forget  to  re- 
move gingerly  with  the  tip  of  a  finger,  she  came  to  the 
end  of  her  tale. 

"It  is — so  wonderful,  Clow — I — I  didn't  know  how 
wonderful  it  was !  Honestly — you  know  what  a  selfish 

148 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

little  pig  I  am — I  would  die  for  him.    I'd  even — I'd  even 
lose  my  looks  for  him.    So  you  see !" 

"Yes,  Amy,  I  see.    You  are  really  quite  sure  ?" 

"Surer  than  I  am  of  my  life."  There  was  a  pause, 
and  then  he  asked  her  what  she  wished  him  to  do. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  plainly  feeling  that  in 
this  domestic  difficulty  she  had  done  her  share,  and  now 
expected  him  not  only  to  accomplish,  but  to  think  out 
and  decide  upon  his. 

"You  want  to  marry  him?" 

"Of  course.  I  don't,"  she  added  with  a  return  of  her 
odd  little  worldly  pomposity,  "altogether  believe  in 
marriage,  but  as  society  is  constituted  there  is  nothing 
better." 

He  restrained  a  smile.     "I  see — and — he?" 

"He — Archie,  you  mean?" 

She  looked  such  a  child  that  he  flinched  at  the  ne- 
cessity of  enlightening  her.  Then,  realizing  her  thirty- 
five  years,  and  the  people  amongst  whom  she  lived  and 
their  lives  and  their  tongues,  he  went  on. 

"I  mean,  does  he  want  to  marry  you?" 

"Clow!  Of  course  he  does.  How  can  you  ask  me 
such  a  question !" 

"I'm  sorry,  but — it's  a  question  that  must  have  an 
answer.  You  surely  know  that  in  these  Ceases  the  man 
very  frequently  doesn't.  Remember  Southvale  and  Bill 

Eversley  and " 

149 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

She  cut  him  short  with  a  gesture  of  magnificent 
scorn.  "Southvale!  And  Bill  Everslej!  Really, 
Clow,  you  amaze  me." 

He  apologized.  "You  see,  Amy,  I  hardly  know 
Hood.  So — he  has  said  he  wants  to  marry  you." 

"Of  course  he  has — a  thousand  times." 

Dorset  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  "Good.  And — does 
he  know  you're  telling  me?" 

She  shook  her  head.    "No." 

"But — why  didn't  you  tell  him  you  were  going  to?" 

"He  knows,  of  course,  only  I  didn't  say  when.  If  I 
didn't  tell  you,"  she  went  on  with  the  ingenuousness 
that  contrasted  so  oddly  with  some  of  her  mental 
phrases,  "how  could  I  ever  marry  him  ?" 

Dorset  felt  that  in  pressing  the  point  he  was  being 
a  brute,  but  he  went  on  nevertheless. 

"Can  you  remember,"  he  asked  slowly,  "when  you 
and  he  last  discussed  the  possibility  of  your  being  mar- 
ried? I  am  going  to  help  you  all  I  can,  Amy,  so 
please  help  me  to  help  you  in  my  own  way." 

She  nodded.  "All  right.  Let  me  see — Oh,  we 
haven't  talked  about  it  lately — you  see,"  and  she  blushed 
splendidly,  "we  have  been  so  happy." 

"I  see.  Well — I  am  sorry,  but  I  have  promised  to 
play  a  game  of  bridge  at  the  club " 

They  rose  with  the  courtesy  which  had  so  smoothed 
their  life  together,  and  shook  hands. 

150 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Thanks  for  telling  me,"  he  said.  "I'll  see  Burnaby 
tomorrow  and — perhaps — before  I  do  that  you'd  better 
ask — Hood  to  come  and  see  me." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Clow,"  she  answered.  "You  are  a 
dear.  If  only  all  husbands  were  as  sensible  as  you  there 
wouldn't  be  any  scandals." 

Then  she  left  the  room  and  he  went  out. 

As  the  butler  helped  him  on  with  a  coat  he  caught 
sight  of  the  man's  face. 

"Anything  wrong,  Immenham?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir,  thank  you.     That  is — I'm  rather  worried, 

sir — about — a  domestic  matter "   Immenham's  face 

looked  drawn  and  worn  and  Dorset,  conscious  of  an 
absurd  surprise  that  this  excellent  servant  should  have 
any  domestic,  or  any  other,  life  of  his  own  apart  from 
875,  looked  kindly  at  him. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  he  said. 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

And  then  Dorset,  urged  to  it  by  some  obscure  long- 
ing he  could  not  analyze,  asked  his  servant  a  question. 
"Are  you  married,  Immenham?" 

The  man  shook  his  head,  a  dull  flush  in  his  cheeks. 

"No,  sir — not  now." 

Dorset  went  his  way  toward  Pall  Mall.  "Poor  beg- 
gar," he  thought,  "what  an  answer ;  not  now.  Ah  well, 
perhaps  he,  like  me,  doesn't  mind,  as  that  poor  little 
thing  said." 

151 


XXVII 

MY  VERY  DEAR, 

The  season  is  over.  The  last  ball  has  been  danced  to  the 
end;  the  last  big  dinner  partly  eaten,  and  I  trust  digested; 
many  great  houses  are  closed;  every  day  continues  the  exo- 
dus of  the  great,  the  comparatively  great  and  the  would-be 
great.  It  is,  though  the  day  is  still  but  a  pale  streak  in  the 
sky,  the  twenty-eighth  of  July. 

Yet  here  in  his  eyrie  still  roosts  thy  Jules,  and  here  he 
is  to  be — for  diplomatic  and  of  course  desperately  secret 
reasons — for  another  two  days. 

The  first  of  August  will  of  course  see  me  at  Passy,  dear 
friend,  and  then  begins  my  month  of  perfect  happiness  with 
you — and  our  good  and  dear  Henri.  But,  although  so  soon 
I  am  to  see  you,  yet  must  I  talk  with  you  tonight. 

You  know  that  I  took  your  advice  about  my  little  Undine. 

I  sought  her  out  and  talked  with  her.  I  told  her  about 
you  and  tried  to  persuade  her  to  go  to  Honegate. 

She  was  interested,  she  admired  your  miniature  almost 
enough  to  satisfy  even  me;  she  would,  she  said,  love  to 
know  you.  But — she  was  going  with  friends  to  Deauville. 

And  always,  always,  at  balls,  at  concerts,  after  dinner,  at 
tea — her  beautiful  questing  eyes  watched  the  door.  And 
when  he  came — in  spite  of  the  trust,  what  relief  in  her 
face !  Alas,  Love  is  always  haunted  by  some  fear.  He,  the 
lover,  is  a  very  handsome  man  with  Spanish  coloring — did  I 
tell  you,  and  in  his  bearing,  all  the  graces  belonging  to  his 

152 


good  birth.  His  manner  is  perfect — not  even  too  trium- 
phant, though,  alas,  I  fear  me  he  is  triumphant. 

At  first,  she  had  moments  of  sadness — not  of  regret,  but 
of  sadness — but  now  those  moments  have  fled,  and  last 
night  I  knew  why.  She  has  told  her  husband ! 

She  is  not  of  those  to  whom  "ce  n'est  pas  peches  qui  peche 
en  silence,"  and  now  that  her  husband  knows,  she  too  is 
triumphant. 

And  how,  you  ask,  do  I  know  that  she  has  told?  I  know 
in  two  ways,  and  here  is  the  first. 

Bigarreau,  the  scoundrel,  has  a  friend,  and  the  friend  is 
Hood's  valet — and  it  seems  that  Hood  left  her  letter  telling 
him  of  what  she  had  done  on  his  table  this  afternoon. 

This  man,  Millipede — what  an  excellent  name  for  the  con- 
fidential servant  of  such  a  being  as  Hood ! — told  Bigarreau 
that  Hood  was  in  a  towering  rage  over  the  letter.  He  was 
furious  with  her  for  telling,  and  in  his  anger  burst  out  and 
told  his  valet  all  except  the  name — and  that  the  faithful 
one  learned  from  the  letter. 

Bigarreau,  knowing  that  I  was  dining  at  the  lady's 
house  (of  such  odd  chances  is  history  made!),  told  me; 
so  that  I  might  warn  her !  The  good  Bigarreau ! 

However,  God  forbid  that  I  should  be  so  foolish  as  to 
interfere  when  no  interference  can  be  of  use,  so  I  ate  my 
dinner  in  silence,  and  tried  not  to  watch  my  host  and  host- 
ess. 

She  was  in  great  beauty,  and  so  happy  as  to  break  one's 
heart.  What  is  worse  than  waiting  for  some  dreadful  blow 
to  fall  on  a  happy,  unsuspecting  head? 

The  husband,  who,  as  I  have  told  you,  is  a  dull,  uninter- 
esting man,  was  perfectly  undisturbed  and  made,  as  they 
say  here,  a  very  good  meal. 

M.  Hood  was  not  there,  but  I  soon  learned  that  a  great 
violinist  was  to  play  later,  and  that  some  people  were  com- 

153 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

ing  in  to  hear  him.     Of  these  people  I  knew  by  instinct  M* 
Hood  was  to  be  one. 

And — the  woman  who  loved  him  had  told  her  husband 
of  her  love,  and  instead  of  being,  because  of  her  courage, 
the  proudest  and  happiest  man  in  the  world,  I  knew  that 
Hood  was  angry,  furiously  angry,  and  probably  frightened. 
It  was  to  make  tremble  with  disgust,  and  I  have  no  shame 
in  telling  you  that  I  trembled. 

And  she — so  lovely,  so  appealing  in  her  great  happiness, 
now  a  new,  serene  happiness — was  all  innocently  flying  col- 
ors to  which,  poor  heart,  she  had  no  right. 

She  was  flying  the  colors  of  a  brave,  fine,  worthy  lover 
who  existed  only  in  her  imagination ! 

Me  she  rallied  for  dullness — teasing  me  in  her  amazing 
version  of  our  beautiful  tongue. 

"Vous  n'etes  pas  gai,  Mossieu,"  she  said,  sweetly,  "etes 
vous  malhouroux?" 

"Madame,"  I  replied,  bowing,  "not  all  the  world  can  be 
happy  at  the  same  time." 

At  that  she  blushed,  her  temples,  which  are  of  a  peculiar 
transparent  quality,  flushing  like  the  top  of  the  Jungfrau  at 
sunset.  "Ah,  yes,"  she  said,  softly,  "I  am  very  happy.  You 
will  know,  soon.  Everybody  will  know,  soon." 

What  will  you?  I  could  not  show  her  that  I  did  know. 
Nor  could  I  tell  her  that  her  rapture  was  but  a  mirage,  a 
dream.  I  was  dull,  tongue-tied,  my  Anastasie-Claire,  and 
she  showed  her  surprise.  To  others,  the  dinner  was  doubt- 
less like  hundreds  of  others  (although  the  cook  of  Madame 
D.  is,  by  the  grace  of  God,  a  Frenchman!)  ;  to  me  it  was 
a  torture. 

And  the  memories  that  rose  in  my  heart !  "Oh,  the  dear 
old  days  when  I  was  so  unhappy !" 

When  the  ladies  had  left  us  I  went  and  sat  by  an  old 
man  who  greatly  amuses  me — an  ancient  and  disreputable 

154 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

peer  whose  daughter  honors — (no,  since  last  night  I  must 
say  honored!)  me  with  a  great  aversion. 

This  old  man,  Lord  Croxley,  lived  much  in  France  in  his 
youth,  and  when  I  see  him  I  make  a  point  of  talking  to  him. 
It  pleases  him  to  speak  French,  and  he  speaks  it  beauti- 
fully. 

An  unreverend,  unrespected  graybeard,  but  of  a  fine  sense 
of  humor,  and  an  unimpaired  memory.  In  sitting  down  by 
Lord  Croxley,  I  placed  myself  but  one  seat  away  from 
Mr.  D.,  our  host,  and  again  I  had  occasion  to  feel  a  rising 
of  my  blood  against  him.  His  wife  had  told  him  of  her 
love  for  another  man,  his  beautiful  child-wife,  and  he  was 
as  unmoved  as  a  monk  who  had  never  seen  a  woman  since 
his  mother  weaned  him !  An  ugly  man  with  deep  lines 
in  his  face,  and  an  immobility  of  countenance  remarkable 
even  in  England. 

Curiously  enough,  Lord  Croxley's  first  remark  to  me  bore 
on  the  matter  of  which  my  mind  was  full. 

"I  hear  you're  going  to  France,  Dorset,"  he  said.  "Law- 
rence was  telling  me." 

M.  Dorset  shook  his  head,  and  filled  his  glass  with 
port. 

"No,"  he  answered,  "Amy  was  going — not  I — but  she 
has  changed  her  mind,  and  we  are  going  down  to  Maiden 
Aqualate." 

"Are  you,  indeed?  I  haven't  seen  Maiden  Aqualate  since 
your  uncle's  time — fine  old  place  it  is.  Have  you  had  any 
changes?" 

Me,  I  had  frozen  hands,  but  this  insensible  husband  was 
unmoved. 

"Not  many."     That  was  all. 

Angry,  I  believe,  at  not  being  asked  to  go  down  to  inspect 
the  place,  old  Croxley  made  another  remark. 

"I  hear — that  old  daughter  of  mine  must  have  told  me, 

155 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

I  suppose — that  you've  taken  a  great  liking  to  Fred  Hood's 
son." 

Dorset  regarded  him.  "Lawrence  can't  have  told  you," 
he  said,  and  again  that  was  all. 

I  found  myself  unable  to  understand  the  situation,  which1 
you  will  admit  is  an  incredible  one,  and  a  few  minutes  later 
I  seized  the  opportunity  created  by  one  of  the  younger  men 
who  follows  the  modern  fashion  of  drinking  nothing,  of 
going  to  the  drawing-room. 

The  day  had  been  fine  for  a  wonder,  but  a  thunderstorm 
was  gathering,  which  met  my  mood  agreeably. 

I  went  straight  to  Mrs.  Dorset,  and  asked  her  to  go  out 
on  the  balcony  with  me. 

The  sky  was  dark  and  the  air  heavy,  though  sweet  with 
the  smell  of  the  roses  in  the  garden.  She  came  at  once 
and  for  a  moment  we  stood  looking  up  at  the  black  sky. 
Then  she  spoke. 

"Oh,  M.  Pasquier  le  Breton,"  she  said,  as  impulsively  as 
a  young  girl  of  sixteen,  "how  wonderful  it  is  to  be  happy." 

"Madame,"  I  replied,  "it  is."  How  could  I  say  I  was 
glad  she  was  happy,  under  the  circumstances? 

She  noticed  the  omission,  but  disregarded  it. 

"I  hope,"  she  said  after  another  pause,  "that  you  like 
Cloudesley — my  husband  ?" 

I  did  not,  but  I  lied  convincingly,  amazed  by  her  query- 

"Because,"  she  burst  out,  "he  is — the  best  man  on  earth !" 

To  say  that  I  was  flambe,  dear  friend,  is  to  say  nothing. 
She  burst  into  a  peal  of  the  prettiest  laughter — at  my  face, 
I  suppose.  "You  think  me  mad,  don't  you?"  she  went  on. 

Again  I  lied,  and  then  to  my  horror  she  laid  her  hand 
on  my  arm  and  said  quietly,  "I  have  always  liked  you  and 
I  want  you  to  know — I  am  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world. 
I  love  someone  very  much — absolutely — and  my  husband  is 
going  to  arrange  for  me  to  marry  him." 

156 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Dearest  friend,  I  give  you  my  word  that  I  found  myself 
on  the  point  of  falling.  My  respiration  failed  me  and  I 
was  dumb. 

"Is  he  not  wonderful?"  she  went  on. 

I  kissed  her  little,  lovely  hand  and  murmured  God  alone 
knows  what,  but  she  was  content. 

"You  see/'  she  explained  simply.  "I  have  never  been  un- 
happy before,  but — I  have  never  been  happy,  and  there's 
such  a  difference." 

Willingly  would  I  have  been  dragged  at  that  moment  to 
the  block.  It  was  frightful. 

Finally  I  stammered  an  eulogy  of  her  husband — it  was 
one  degree  easier  than  lying  about  her  lover — and  she 
agreed  warmly. 

"Yes,  he  is  an  angel.  I  am  glad  I  told  you,  monsieur,  I 
knew  you  would  be  glad." 

"But  will  not  Monsieur  Dorsette  [it  is  thus  that  it  pro- 
nounces itself]  be  very  lonely  without  you?"  I  asked. 

She  laughed  merrily  and  kindly.  "No.  You  see,  dear 
monsieur,  he  never  cared  much  for  me — and  he  doesn't  ob- 
ject in  the  least.  Also — you  promise  not  to  tell?" 

I  promised. 

"Well,  I  think  he  will  not  be  alone  long.  He  will  marry 
again,  and,  I  think,  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine." 

"Just  Heaven,  madame,"  your  poor  Jules  cried,  outside 
himself.  "You  cannot  mean  that  your  husband  has  con- 
fided to  you  as  well  as  you  to  him?" 

"Ah,  no,"  she  answered,  amused  by  my  distress,  for  they 
train  themselves,  the  English,  to  be  amused  by  other  peo- 
ple's emotions,  "not  that,  but — for  a  long  time  I  have  seen 
that  a  dear  friend  of  mine  is  very  fond  of  him — fonder 
possibly  than  she  knows,  poor  darling ! — and  of  late  he  is 
seeing  her  every  day,  so  I  hope  he  will  marry  Lawrence — 
Oh,  I've  told  you  her  name !" 

157 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Like  a  child  she  clapped  her  hand  over  her  mouth,  and 
then  we  each  made  a  little  exclamation  of  horror,  for  just 
behind  her,  in  the  window,  stood  the  lady  of  whom  she 
spoke,  the  daughter  of  the  old  lord  who  speaks  French  so 
well ! 

It  was  a  dreadful  moment,  and  a  very  long  one. 

Then  Miss  Croxley  said  quietly,  "Some  people  have  come, 
Amy  dear,"  and  our  hostess  had  fled,  and  she  and  I  were 
alone. 

"I  heard,"  she  said. 

"I  feared  it,"  said  I. 

For  a  moment  we  looked  steadily  at  each  other  and  then 
she  held  out  her  hand,  and  I  took  it.  A  bony  hand,  my 
beloved,  a  strong  hand. 

"M.  Pasquier  le  Breton,"  she  began,  "let's  be  friends, 
because  if  we  do,  we  may  be  able  to  help  Amy." 

"I  am  more  than  willing,"  I  replied. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  feel,"  she  went  on,  in  the  rough, 
bold  way  I  had  always  hated,  but  now  began  to  like,  "but 
I  loathe  Captain  Hood." 

It  behooves  a  man  to  be  more  prudent  in  speech  than  a 
woman,  though  women  must  in  their  acts  be  more  circum- 
spect than  men. 

"I  can't  say  I  like  him,"  was  my  cautious  reply,  "but ' 

"I  know,  I  know!"  (An  impatient  lady,  this.)  "Of 
course  you  don't  like  him.  Well,  now  listen  to  me.  We 
women  are  fools,  but  God — the  good  God,  as  you  polite 
Latins  call  him ! — has  given  us  intuition.  And  instinctively 
I  have  always  disliked  that  man." 

"She  loves  him,"  I  ventured,  for  in  the  plenitude  of  her 
partisanship  she  bewildered  me. 

"Yes,  and  to  do  the  reptile  justice,  I  believe  he  loves 
her.  But  what,"  she  went  on,  extending  herself  in  a  blaze, 
like  a  prairie  fire,  "is  the  love  of  such  a  man?" 

158 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Mademoiselle — how  can  I  say?"  (Thy  little  Jules  being 
the  diplomat  indeed!) 

There  was  a  pause,  and  during  it  came  to  us  the  soul- 
splitting  wail  of  a  violin  in  process  of  tuning. 

"Levinski  is  going  to  play  !" 

Together,  of  one  movement  we  drew  into  the  shadow, 
and  listened.  Perhaps  the  music  soothed  us  to  a  riper  com- 
prehension, a  mellower  kindness;  who  can  say? 

At  all  events,  this  woman  who  had  been  strong  enough 
to  bear  hearing  her  love-story  told  to  a  man  she  disliked, 
without  making  a  single  remark  about  it,  came  to  appear 
to  me  in  a  rather  noble  light.  She  reminded  me  in  her 
stoicism  of  you,  dearest  and  sweetest  of  women.  I  need 
say  no  more. 

When  the  music  ceased  she  spoke  in  the  gentler  mood  I 
so  strongly  appreciated. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  proving  her  rarity  by  pronouncing 
that  shibboleth  of  a  word  without  the  suspicion  of  an  h, 
"we  will  be  friends,  you  and  I.  And  by  way  of  beginning 
our  friendship  I  will  show  you  something." 

From  her  flat  bosom  she  produced  three  letters,  which 
she  gave  to  me.  "I  must  go  now,"  she  said,  "for  my  father 
is  here,  and  he  is — not  quite  himself,  and  the  sight  of  me 
would  incense  him.  Read  these  letters — they  are  all  dated, 
and  the  one  signed  'Psyche'  is  from  Amy — and,  tomorrow 
come  to  see  me" — giving  me  her  most  unfashionable  ad- 
dress— "and  we  will  confer." 

I  bowed.  "Mademoiselle,"  I  replied,  "I  am  honored  by 
your  friendship  and  your  confidence,  and  will  do  my  best 
to  prove  worthy  of  them.  Good  night." 

She  disappeared  into  the  now  nearly  full  drawing-room, 
but  shortly  came  back.  "I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  with 
a  furious  blush,  "that  these  letters  were  sent  to  me  anony- 
mously— I  have  no  idea  by  whom."  Then  she  left  me. 

159 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Dear  friend,  I  will  not  offend  you  by  the  perusal  of  the 
letters.  It  suffices  to  say  that  they  are  written  to  M.  le 
Captaine  Hood  by  three  different  women,  one  of  them 
our  poor  Undine,  and  that  they  prove,  beyond  the  shadow 
of  a  doubt  that,  however  sincerely  he  may  love  Madame  Dor- 
set, he  is  that  contemptible  thing,  a  man  who  deceives  and 
distresses  women,  and  who  is  a  liar  and  incapable  of  fidelity. 

One  of  the  poor  souls,  indeed,  writes  in  such  misery  that 
tears  come,  as  I  read,  to  my  sinful  eyes.  And  the  worst  is 
that  all  these  letters  were  written  within  the  last  week, 
which  shows  that  the  man  beloved  of  my  poor,  sweet  Undine 
has  not  even  honored  her  with  a  temporary  cessation  of 
his  ignoble  game. 

My  heart  aches  for  her.  Tomorrow  I  shall  see  Miss  Crox-1 
ley,  but — what  shall  I  say  to  her  ? 

Alas,  it  is  beyond  me. 

To  me  he  seems  like  the  animal  described  by  La  Fontaine 
in  the  "Pest-Smitten  Beasts":  "Death  alone  is  capable  of 
expiating  his  crimes." 

To  you,  my  sweet  saint,  good  night — or  rather,  good 
morning,  for  the  western  sky  is  bursting  into  the  bloom  of 
sunrise ! 

God  be  with  you. 

JULES. 


XXVIII 

IT  was  Immenham,  the  decorous,  self-respecting 
Immenham,  who  had  sent  the  three  letters  to 
Miss  Croxley. 

The  impish  Millipede  the  night  before  the  dinner- 
party had,  to  tease  the  man  whose  superiority  both 
amused  and  irritated  him,  brought  the  letters  to  the 
Yellow  Posts,  when,  finding  Mr.  Dorset's  butler  alone, 
he  had  proceeded  to  enjoy  himself. 

Every  man  to  his  humor,  says  the  poet,  and  it 
chanced  to  be  Mr.  Cosmo  Millipede's  humor  to  tor- 
ment people  who  refused  to  appreciate  him  according 
to  his  own  bill  of  lading. 

"Mrs.  D.,"  he  had  declared,  "is  not  the  only  one." 
Then  he  produced  the  letters,  explaining  airily  that  he 
had  "borrowed"  them. 

The  man,  though  a  scoundrel,  was  undoubtedly  de- 
voted to  his  master,  yet  he  sacrificed,  in  his  love  of  a 
bitter  prank,  his  master's  welfare  to  his  own  wicked 
sense  of  fun.  It  is  difficult  to  explain,  but  so  it  was. 

"Besides,"  he  grinned,  sitting  on  the  table,  "you 
wouldn't  dare  tell  Mrs.  Pish." 

161 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Mrs.  Pish?"  With  a  gleam  of  hope  poor  Immenham 
looked  up  from  the  paper  he  still  feigned  to  read. 

"Yes — Pish.  Read  the  letters  and  you'll  see.  That's 
'is  pet  name  for  your  one !  Spelt  rather  odd,  but  that's 
what  it  means." 

Immenham,  who  in  his  delicacy  had  refused  to  read 
the  letters,  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair.  His  mistress 
was  certainly  not  Mrs.  Pish. 

"If  Captain  Hood  knew  you,"  he  said  slowly,  "he'd 
kick  you  out." 

Millipede  glowed  with  satisfaction.  "Not  'im !  I'm 
perfectly  invaluable  to  that  man,  and  he  knows  it." 

"Ugh !" 

"Well,  I  may  not  be  your  taste,  but  I  am  his !  And 
if  you  don't  believe  me " 

"Look  here,  Millipede,"  asked  Immenham,  fixing  him 
with  his  large,  clear,  discomforting  gaze,  "it's  only 
three  weeks  since  you  were  standing  up  for  the  Captain 
through  thick  and  thin.  Why  have  you  changed?" 

The  other  man  laughed.  "Haven't  Hood  and  I  been 
real  friends.  Only — well,  you're  so  damned  superior, 
Immenham ;  you  never  meet  a  chap  half-way ;  you  don't 
know  what  good-fellowship  means.  And  as  you  and  I 
both  know  that  your  little  lady  is  making  a " 

"Shut  up!" 

Millipede  edged  away  a  little.  "All  right,  all  right, 
no  offense.  But  you  just  about  think  she's  a  little  wax 

163 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

mother  of  God,  and — well,  it  amuses  me  to  prove  that 
she  isn't.  See?" 

Immenham  resumed  his  paper.  "I  see.  And  that's 
quite  enough  from  you,  thanks." 

Spreading  the  three  letters  alluringly  on  the  table 
beside  poor  Immenham's  half-pint,  the  Pucklike  Milli- 
pede departed,  saying  that  he  would  come  back  shortly. 

No  sooner  had  he  gone  than  Immenham,  his  face 
rather  pale,  took  them,  read  them,  and  with  a  sigh,  and 
putting  them  into  his  pocket,  left  the  public-house. 

He  would  make  use  of  the  letters  somehow,  though 
how  he  hardly  knew,  and — he  was  a  good  man  but  he 
had  been  sorely  goaded — Millipede  would  never  dare 
make  a  fuss  about  his  loss  ! 

Like  many  clever  people,  Rowland  Immenham  made 
the  mistake  of  thinking  that  only  he  realized  and  per- 
ceived under-surface  things.  He  knew  Archie  Hood  to 
be  an  untrustworthy  man,  but  he  believed  that  no  one 
else  knew. 

So,  once  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  it  was  not  without 
satisfaction  that  he  addressed  the  three  letters  in  a 
disguised  hand  to  Miss  Croxley  and  posted  them.  It 
would,  he  feared,  be  a  shock  for  Miss  Croxley,  but  she 
was  a  good  woman  and  could  be  trusted  to  do  her  best 
with  the  knowledge  he  had  thus  assured  to  her — he, 
Immenham. 

163 


XXIX 

POOR  little  Amy  Dorset  received  the  two  letters 
— naturally  Lawrence  and  Pasquier  le  Breton 
had  not  sent  her  her  own — the  next  afternoon  as 
she  waited  for  Hood  to  come  to  her. 

He  had  not  come  the  evening  before,  to  her  amaze- 
ment, for  in  the  letter  that  had  so  incensed  him  she 
had  told  him  that  her  husband  wished  to  see  him,  and 
in  her  odd,  untimely  simplicity  she  had  expected  her 
lover  to  accept  her  husband's  generosity  as  easily  as 
she  herself  had  done. 

Hood's  attitude  during  the  twenty-four  hours  sub- 
sequent to  his  receipt  of  her  letter,  is  extremely  difficult 
to  analyze.  He  himself  made  no  effort  to  analyze  it, 
for  subconsciously  he  knew  that  he  had  on  the  matter 
several  quite  distinct  sets  of  feelings.  He  was  violently 
if  not  deeply  in  love  with  Mrs.  Dorset,  and  he  believed 
with  perfect  sincerity  that  to  own  her — not  merely  to 
possess  her,  but  to  own,  so  to  speak,  her  life — would 
be  the  acme  of  happiness  to  him. 

If  she  had  been  free  he  would  have  married  her  at 
once.  But  at  the  same  time  he  had  never  contemplated 

164 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

the  forcible  freeing  of  her.     Divorce  had  not  occurred 
to  him,  and  he  was  not  of  the  eloping  kind. 

Danger,  the  pleasant,  triumphant  danger  of  success- 
ful intrigue,  was  the  breath  of  his  nostrils  to  him,  but 
he  did  not  enjoy  the  atmosphere  of  the  divorce  court. 
Also,  he  had,  oddly  enough,  always  rather  like  Cloud- 
esley  Dorset,  and  although  he  had  had  no  qualms  about 
injuring  him  without  his  knowledge,  he  shrank  from 
facing  the  man's  realization  of  his  injuries. 

The  world,  he  felt,  was  doubtless  overfull  of  husbands, 
but  on  the  other  hand  he  was  not  ungrateful  enough  to 
refuse  to  grstnt  that  without  husbands  there  could  be 
no  wives ;  and  wives  were  his  favorite  pasturage. 

So  he  was,  even  in  his  irritated  anger,  sorry  for  Dor- 
set. Remained  the  detestable  fact  that  he,  Hood,  was 
over  his  handsome  ears  in  debt,  and  what  in  Heaven's 
name  was  he  to  do  with  a  penniless  wife?  He  had  never 
forgotten,  as  Amy  had,  that  the  money  in  the  Dorset 
household  belonged  entirely  to  its  head.  Altogether, 
he  was  in  a  most  unpleasant  mess  and  spent  a  wretched 
evening,  first  at  his  club  and  then  at  Beryl  Spottis- 
woode's. 

Beryl  cheered  him  with  flagons  and  comforted  him 
with  apples,  so  that  the  end  of  the  evening  was  not  so 
bad  as  the  beginning,  but  he  knew  that  the  morning 
would  bring  its  revenge,  and  it  did,  as  is  its  horrid 
way. 

165 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

A  note  from  Amy,  brought  in  at  ten  o'clock  with  a 
brandy-and-soda,  did  not  mend  matters.  She  was  puz- 
zled by  his  depression,  but  as  yet  perfectly  unsuspicious, 
and  she  expected  him  without  fail  at  half-past  five  that 
afternoon. 

After  a  miserable  hour-and-a-half  in  bed  he  rose,  and 
when  he  was  dressed  and  about  to  go  for  a  walk  before 
lunch,  another  annoyance  cropped  up,  as  if  to  prove 
the  truth  of  the  horrid  old  proverb  about  the  collective 
habits  of  troubles.  He  missed  some  letters  that  in  his 
worry  he  had  left  in  a  pocket  when  he  changed  for  din- 
ner the  evening  before. 

"Millipede!" 

"Sir?" 

"I  left  some  letters  in  one  of  my  pockets  last  night 
when  I  dressed.  Where  have  you  put  them?" 

"Nowhere,  sir;  'aven't  seen  'em,  sir." 

"You  must  have  seen  them — one  was  on  very  blue 
paper." 

"No,  sir." 

Millipede  was  nearly  as  gifted  in  the  art  of  untruth- 
fulness  as  his  master,  and  Hood  knew  that  the  man  was 
a  liar,  though  he  did  not  call  himself  one. 

For  a  moment  the  four  eyes  met,  and  then  Hood 
nodded.  "Oh,  all  right,  they  weren't  very  important, 
only  I  certainly  thought  I'd  left  'em  in  my  coat " 

Millipede,  who  had  had  a  bad  night  because  of  the 
166 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

letters,  and  who  was  planning  all  sorts  of  ways  to  get 
even  with  Immenham,  retired  with  relief  in  his  soul. 

For  years  he  had,  almost  as  a  matter  of  conscience, 
read  his  employer's  correspondence,  but  he  had  never 
made  the  slightest  use  of  his  knowledge,  and  until  yes- 
terday had  never  taken  so  much  as  an  envelope  out  of 
the  flat. 

And  to  think  that  it  was  pompous,  dull  old  Immen- 
ham who  had  bested  him ! 

Hood  was  very  much  annoyed,  for  while  one  of  the 
letters  was  only  one  of  Alys  Lowndes's  stupidly  senti- 
mental effusions,  another  was  from  Amy,  and  the  third 
referred  in  unmistakable  terms  to  the  most  serious 
difficulty,  bar  this  new  one  of  Amy's  having  told 
her  husband,  in  which  he  for  the  moment  found  him- 
self. 

He  was  a  fastidious  man,  as  a  rule,  and  although 
Yvonne  Cavendish  was  extremely  pretty,  she  was  not  a 
lady,  and  he  feared  she  would  cause  trouble  now. 

He  wished,  savagely,  that  he  had  never  seen  her. 
After  all,  the  whole  thing  was  her  fault ;  she  had  been 
married,  she  had  been  in  some  musical-comedy  chorus, 
and  knew  her  way  about  as  well  as  he. 

On  his  way  to  his  club  he  stopped  at  a  post  office  and 
sent  her  a  telegram. 

Amy,  meantime,  had  risen  early  and  gone  for  a  walk. 

This  was  for  her  a  most  unusual  proceeding,  but  the 
167 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

morning  was  fine  and  she  was  restless,  and  it  seemed  a 
good  way  to  kill  time. 

She  had  not  seen  her  husband  since  the  night  before, 
and  she  knew  that  he  would  be  busy  until  dinner-time, 
for  it  was  a  Wednesday,  and  Wednesdays  he  invariably 
devoted  to  the  business  inevitably  connected  with  vast 
wealth. 

After  lunch  she  had  her  usual  rest,  but  even  Clemen- 
tine's clever  fingers  could  not  soothe  her  to  sleep,  and 
when  finally,  unable  any  longer  to  lie  still,  she  found 
herself  in  the  drawing-room  at  four  o'clock,  she  looked 
tired  and  a  little  older  than  usual,  in  spite  of  the  skill 
with  which  her  toilette  was  chosen. 

The  sun  had  gone,  and  it  looked  like  rain — it  had 
been  altogether  a  dreadful  summer. 

The  charming  room  was  full  of  flowers;  tall  white 
Madonna  lilies  stood  about  in  glass  vases,  filling  the  air 
with  their  poetic  fragrance. 

For  a  while  Mrs.  Dorset  sat  quietly  reading.  She 
was  struggling  through  "Crime  and  Punishment,"  and 
trying  desperately  to  like  it. 

Her  brows  drawn  together,  she  waded  on,  and  then, 
as  the  clock  struck  half-past  four,  she  heard  a  footstep 
and  sprang  to  her  feet,  her  face  on  fire  with  expectation. 
He  had  come — and  an  hour  too  soon ! 

"Letters,  madame." 

The  light  faded  from  her  face,  leaving  it  so  wan  that 
168 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Immenham's  heart  smote  him,  and  he  went  out  of  the 
room  with  a  sigh  that  only  his  perfect  training  ren- 
dered inaudible. 

Mrs.  Dorset  sat  down  again  and  read  her  letters. 


XXX 

THERE  were  three  invitations,  one  for  Scotland, 
the  other  two  for  country-house  parties,  one  of 
which  the  King  of  Spain  was  to  grace;  the 
other  to  a  certain  Mrs.  Beauchamp.     This  invitation 
she  would  in  no  case  accept.     Molly  Beauchamp  was  a 
woman  of  nearly  fifty  with  a  well-deserved  bad  repu- 
tation, although  she  knew,  as  the  saying  goes,  "every- 
body."    Archie,  Amy  reflected,  would  hate  her  to  go 
there.     There  were  two  bills ;  then  there  was  a  large 
cheap-looking  envelope  with  a  typewritten  address. 

This  she  opened,  listlessly,  her  mind  busy  with  his 
Bourbon  Majesty. 

The  two  letters  that  poor  Lawrence  had  sent  to  her 
without  a  word,  were  in  their  envelopes,  and  with  the 
stupidity  of  which  most  of  us  are  guilty  at  sudden 
crises,  Amy  stared  at  them  for  several  seconds  without 
moving. 

"Letters  to  Archie,"  she  thought ;  "how  odd !" 

She  then  realized  that  the  letters  had  both  been 
opened.  Had  he  sent  them  to  her  and  forgotten  to  put 
in  an  explanatory  note? 

170 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

She  took  up  the  topmost  one  and  turned  it  over  idly. 
She  was  not  a  curious  woman,  and  she  was  perfectly 
honorable. 

The  chances,  therefore,  may  be  regarded  as  a  little 
more  than  even  that  but  for  one  thing  she  would  have 
laid  the  letters  aside  until  she  could  ask  Hood  about 
them.  The  determining  factor  in  what  she  did  was  a 
simple  one;  a  strong  scent  of  heliotrope  reached  her 
nostrils  from  the  letter  she  held.  She  flushed  suddenly, 
hesitated,  and  took  the  single  sheet  out  of  the  envelope. 

ARCHIE,  MY  LOVE  [was  scrawled  in  a  rather  firm,  bold 
hand],  I  can't  bear  this !  I  must  see  you,  dear.  I  hate  both- 
ering you,  but  it  is  nearly  a  week  since  I  saw  you  and 
I'm  such  a  fool  that  when  I  don't,  I  can't  help  imagining 
all  sorts  of  dreadful  things.  Do  write  just  a  line  and  say 
you  haven't  stopped  loving  me,  Beau-Boy?  And  do  come 
to  see  me,  even  if  it  has  to  be  late.  Jessup  has  gone  for 
her  holiday,  and  I'll  unbolt  the  door,  so  your  key  will  let 
you  in.  Darling,  I  love  you  so  dreadfully. 

ALYS. 

The  clock  ticked  along  in  the  even  tenor  of  its  way, 
and  a  top-heavy  lily  fell  out  of  a  shallow  vase. 

Mrs.  Dorset  read  the  note  twice.  Then  she  read  the 
other. 

32  Princes  St.  Westminster. 
ARCHIE, 

For  God's  sake  answer  my  letter.  I  am  nearly  desperate 
and  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  don't  ask  much  but  you 

171 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

must  help  me  now.  For  God's  sake  come  to  see  me  Wednes- 
day afternoon,  when  I  am  free.  I'll  not  make  a  scene, 
only  you  must  tell  me  what  to  do. 

YVONNE. 

The  clock  struck  the  quarter,  and  Mrs.  Dorset  did 
not  move. 

She  sat  very  quietly  in  the  great  chair  she  loved,  her 
face  in  the  shadow  of  its  wings. 

It  had  begun  to  rain,  the  drops  tinkling  musically 
against  the  windows.  Presently  a  hurdy-gurdy  burst 
into  a  florid  ragtime  melody. 

It  played  only  a  short  time,  breaking  off  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  air  and  then  trundling  away.  .  .  . 

When  Captain  Hood  arrived,  he  found  Mrs.  Dorset 
reading  by  the  fire.  She  had  more  color  than  usual, 
and  looked  remarkably  beautiful,  but  she  laughingly 
warned  him  not  to  kiss  her  as  the  doctor  had  just  been 
and  feared  that  she  was  in  for  measles,  a  malady  then 
prevalent  in  the  neighborhood. 

"Darling — you  mustn't  have  measles,"  he  protested, 
"I  couldn't  bear  it  if  you  had  to  suffer !" 

"Couldn't  you?" 

"You  wouldn't  ask  me,"  he  said,  reproachfully,  "if 
you  knew  how  I  love  you." 

She  chattered  gayly  as  Immenham  set  the  tea  things 
before  her,  and  when  they  were  again  alone,  she  asked 

172 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

him  suddenly,  "By  the  way,  Archie,  do  you  know  a  Mrs. 
Lowndes  ?" 

He  frowned  thoughtfully.  "Lowndes?  No — I  think 
not — unless  you  mean  old  Mrs.  Baylay-Lowndes,  Cyril 
Heathcote's  mother?" 

She  chose  a  sandwich  with  great  care.  "No,  no.  The 
one  I  mean  is  younger  than  Cyril's  mother — about 
fifty,  I  should  say,  and  still  handsome — very  made  up, 
you  know." 

He  laughed.  "Oh,  yes,  of  course.  Lives  somewhere 
in  Essex  and  has  a  flat  in  town — I've  met  her  at  the 
Wests'.  Why,  darling?" 

Even  in  her  anguish  she  could  not  withhold  an  in- 
voluntary tribute  to  his  gift  of  lying.  It  was,  she  felt, 
magnificent  of  its  kind. 

She  was  also  proud  of  her  own  prowess;  the  tele- 
phone book  had  given  her  "Alys's"  surname,  and  the 
memory  of  a  casual  inquiry  about  the  lady  months  ago 
at  a  garden  party  had  fitted  a  personality  to  the 
name. 

She  smiled.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  Someone  told  me 
last  night  that  the  poor  old  thing  is  making  a  fool  of 
herself  about  some  young  man,  and  I  wondered  if  you 
knew  her " 

Hood  changed  the  subject  hastily,  but  without  the 
remotest  suspicion,  and  five  minutes  later  Clementine, 
as  instructed,  came  in  to  tell  her  mistress  that  Mrs. 

173 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Undershaft  had  called  her  to  the  telephone  to  say  that 
she  absolutely  must  see  Mrs.  Dorset  at  once. 

Mrs.  Undershaft  was  in  delicate  health,  and  as  she 
and  Amy  were  great  friends  Hood  could  raise  no  serious 
objection  to  receiving  his  marching  orders. 

"I'll  see  you  this  evening,"  Mrs.  Dorset  said,  "if  I'm 
not  down  with  measles,  that  is !" 

Hood  was  no  coward,  but  he  saw  no  advantage  to  be 
derived  from  running  the  risk  of  an  unpleasant  and 
ridiculous  malady  like  measles,  so  he  made  no  attempt 
to  kiss  his  lily  lady  as  he  called  her.  "Darling — you'll 
telephone  me  at  seven — just  to  tell  me  how  you  are?" 
he  urged,  with  melting  eyes. 

She  laughed  again,  and  he  wondered  if  she  had  really 
fever;  her  voice  sounded  not  quite  itself,  and  he  had 
never  seen  her  with  such  a  brilliant  color. 

At  the  door  he  turned.  "Psyche  dearest,"  he  said, 
"you  haven't  said  a  word  about — us." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"You've  talked  so  fast,"  he  explained,  reproaching 
her  for  the  very  omission  that  had  so  relieved  his  mind, 
"that  you  forgot  to  tell  me  when  I  am  to  see  your  hus- 
band. Can't  I  see  him  now?" 

"He  is  out.  You  have  forgotten  that  he  is  never  at 
home  on  Wednesdays." 

Hood  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "So  I  had !  However 
— you  are  sure  he  wasn't  angry  ?" 

174 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Not  at  all  angry.    Well,  I  must  go,  Archie !" 
"Yes,  sweet.     It  is  hard  to  leave  you.     However,  it 
isn't  for  long." 

"No,"  she  said  slowly,  "it  isn't  for  long." 


XXXI 

Mrs.  Alfred  Beauchamp.    Long  Powsley,  Herbinton,  Sus- 
sex.    Delighted  to  come.     Arrive  tomorrow  afternoon. 

AMY. 


XXXII 

MISS  YVONNE  CAVENDISH  lived  not  far  from 
Westminster  Abbey,  in  a  narrow  street  of 
tall,  dark  houses. 

There  were  three  brass  knobs  at  the  side  of  the  street 
door,  and  Mrs.  Dorset  instinctively  avoided  the  lowest. 
She  pulled  the  middle  one  but  even  that  was  too  low, 
and  when  the  door  yielded  to  her  pressure  and  she  went 
into  the  dark  passage,  a  man's  voice  called  over  the 
banisters  to  ask  her  what  she  wanted. 

Until  then  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  that  she  did 
not  know  "Yvonne's"  surname,  so  she  hesitated  in  her 
reply  to  the  unseen  man. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  "I  fear  I've  rung  the  wrong 
bell.  I  wanted  Miss " 

Breaking  down  completely,  she  waited  with  hard- 
beating  heart  to  be  accused  of  some  dreadful  thing,  or 
to  be  told  to  go  away  and  mind  her  own  business. 

Instead  of  which  the  voice  said  good-naturedly,  "Oh 
yes,  Miss  Cavendish — top  door — I  think  she's  at 
home" — and  there  was  a  loud  bang. 

The  stairs  were  narrow  and  dark,  but  there  was  a 
177 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

fairly  good  linoleum,  and  the  light  at  the  first  landing 
showed  that  the  house  was  clean  as  such  houses  go. 

A  polished  plate  on  the  first  door  told  Mrs.  Dorset 
that  her  invisible  informant  was  one  Mr.  Paul  Green, 
music-engraver. 

Pausing  for  a  moment,  she  went  on  into  the  darkness 
and  then  emerged  again  into  the  light  from  a  small 
window. 

Here  she  saw  the  name  "Mrs.  Keel"  on  a  card  nailed 
to  the  door,  and  here,  after  a  moment's  breathless  hesi- 
tation, she  knocked. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  she  knocked  again. 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  an  extremely  pretty 
girl  in  a  voluminous  pink  dressing-gown  stood  staring 
at  her. 

"Are — are  you  Miss  Cavendish?" 

"I  am." 

Her  hair,  which  was  of  an  unusual  shade  of  real  gold, 
curled  and  tendriled  round  her  brow  in  a  way  that  even 
in  such  a  moment  Amy  could  not  help  envying. 

"I  have  come  to  see  you,"  she  said  gently,  "  and  I 
should  like  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you,  if  you  don't 
mind " 

Miss  Cavendish,  whose  eyelids  were  red,  stared  at 
her  for  a  moment,  and  then,  in  a  pretty  voice  barely 
marred  by  a  shadow  of  cockney  inflection,  invited  her 
to  come  in. 

178 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

The  little  sitting-room  was  not  very  ugly ;  there  were 
chintz  curtains,  one  or  two  old-fashioned  water-colors 
on  the  wall,  and  some  books  in  a  very  good  Sheraton 
bookcase. 

"The  place  is  in  rather  a  mess,"  Miss  Cavendish 
apologized;  "I  haven't  been  just  the  thing,  and 

"I  think  it's  very  pretty,"  Amy  protested  sincerely. 
She  did  not  know  exactly  what  she  had  expected,  but 
she  realized  as  she  sat  down  that  she  certainly  had  not 
expected  this. 

"You — you  don't  come  from  the  Thespian  M.  A.?" 
the  girl  burst  out  suddenly,  a  frown  on  her  brows. 

"The  Thespian — what?" 

"No,  you  don't — so  that's  all  right.  I  was  afraid 
you  might — the  Thespian  Mutual  Aid,  I  meant.  You 
see,  a  gentleman  friend  of  mine — he's  Cyril  Com- 
thorpe's  general  manager — mentioned  it  to  me,  and  I 

said  I  wouldn't  go  to  them.  So  I  was  afraid "  She 

broke  off  with  a  laugh,  "but  you're  not,  so  that's  all 
right."  Amy  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"I  have  come  to  see  you  about  a — a  very  personal 
matter,"  she  began.  "I  heard  of  you  quite  by  accident, 
and — you  mustn't  be  angry,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  as 
a  cloud  seemed  to  descend  on  Miss  Cavendish's  pretty 
face,  "it's  a  very  serious  thing  for  me,  and — I  want  you 
to  help  me  if  you  will." 

The  girl  laughed,  drawing  her  crumpled  garment 
179 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

closer  about  her.    "Me  help  you?    That  sounds  a  good 
joke!" 

"It  isn't  a  joke.  I  am  very  unhappy.  And  I  fear," 
she  went  on  gently,  "that  you  are  too." 

Miss  Cavendish  jerked  her  chin  up  irritably. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  worry  about  me,"  she  said.  "I've 
been  a  bit  of  a  d — ,  of  a  fool,  but  that  was  my  own 
lookout,  and  I'm  all  right." 

There  was  a  pause  and  the  two  women  looked  at  each 
other,  with,  on  both  sides,  an  odd  mixture  of  sympathy 
and  repulsion. 

"I  think,"  Amy  began  again,  "that  you  know — Cap- 
tain Hood." 

"Captain  Hood!"  A  rush  of  color  flooded  the  girl's 
pale  face.  "Did  he  send  you?  If  he  did,  you  can  just 
go  and  tell  him " 

"Hush!  He  didn't  send  me.  I've  never  even  heard 
him  mention  your  name.  If  you'll  wait,"  Amy  went  on 
gently,  "I'll  explain  to  you." 

"Go  on." 

"The  situation  is  this."  Amy  obeyed,  feeling  very 
much  as  if  she  were  acting.  "This  letter  of  yours  has 
come  to  my  hands.  Someone  sent  it  to  me — anony- 
mously. Will  you  tell  me  what  it  means?" 

The  girl  took  the  letter,  read  it,  and  laughed,  a  hard, 
short  laugh,  full  of  bitter  amusement. 

"Yes,  it's  mine  all  right." 
180 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 


"And  it  means- 


"I  imagine  you  know  what  it  means.  You  must  be," 
Miss  Cavendish  added  dispassionately,  "older  than  me." 

"Yes,  I  am  older  than  you.  Well — would  you  mind 
telling  me  about  it?  I  promise  you  I  will  never  tell, 
and — I  shall  be  very  grateful  to  you." 

"I  don't  mind  telling  you.  I'm  not  ashamed.  At 
least,"  she  amended,  "not  very." 

After  a  pause  she  told  her  story. 

"I  was  on  the  stage  till  about  a  year  ago,  and  then 
I  lost  my  job.  The  stage-manager  at  the  Tiara  was  a 
great  friend  of  mine.  Used  to  know  my  husband.  My 
husband  left  me  three  years  ago — no  good  at  all,  he 
wasn't.  I  tried  very  hard  to  get  work  and  finally  got 
a  place  as  show-girl.  My  figure,"  she  explained  cau- 
tiously, "was  not  bad.  I  lived  here — rather  fond  of 
the  place — and  Mr.  Isaacson — that's  the  gentleman  I 
spoke  of — he  used  to  give  me  tickets  sometimes,  or  a 
good  dinner.  You  know — little  treats  of  different 
kinds  to  cheer  me  up.  He  was  a  good  friend  to  me, 
Isaacson  was.  Nothing  else,  you  understand — he'd 
have  married  me,  if  Clarence  hadn't  been  alive.  Then 
I  met  Archie." 

In  spite  of  herself  Amy  winced  at  this,  but  Miss 
Cavendish  didn't  observe  it,  and  went  on  in  her  mo- 
notonous voice. 

"He  saw  me  in  Hanover  Square  one  evening,  and 
181 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

spoke  to  me.  I  told  him  to  mind  his  own  business,  but 
he  was  there  the  next  evening,  and  finally,  once  when 
it  was  raining  like  the  devil,  I  went  and  dined  with 
him. 

"He  was  very  nice,  and — it's  pleasant  to  talk  to  a 
real  gentleman.  My  father  was  a  gentlemanly  man — 
he  was  a  French  polisher  at  Wycherley's — but  he 
wasn't  like  Archie,  and  no  more  was  Isaacson.  Well" 
— she  broke  off  with  a  shrug — "you  can  imagine  the 
rest.  I  was  awfully  fond  of  him,  and  he  said  he  was  of 
me  and  I  suppose  he  was  in  a  way — for  a  while. 

"He  used  to  send  me  flowers,  and  chocolates — his 
manners  were  lovely " 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and,  inflamed  already,  sud- 
denly turned  scarlet. 

"I  don't  so  much  mind  his  leaving  me,"  she  said  with 
a  sob,  "but — don't  you  think  'e  might  have  done  it 
decently  ?" 

Amy  rose  and  laid  her  hand  on  the  poor  heaving 
shoulder.  "I  do  indeed,"  she  said  softly ;  "he  is  a  beast 
to  treat  you  so." 

Yvonne  Cavendish  wiped  her  eyes  on  a  damp  ball  of 
cambric  that  she  drew  out  from  under  one  of  the  sofa 
cushions. 

"No,  he  isn't  a  beast,"  she  said,  clearing  her  throat. 
"He's  only  awfully  thoughtless,  poor  boy." 

The  interview  reached  its  zenith  of  misery  to  Amy 
182 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Dorset  when  this  pathetic  creature  called  Hood  "poor 
boy." 

She  went  back  to  her  chair  and  took  her  bag  from 
the  table. 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  tell  me  so  frankly,"  she 
said.  "You  have  done  me  a  great  service.  In  return, 
you  must  let  me  help  you — until  you  can  go  back  to 
your  work." 

The  girl  looked  at  her.    "Do, you  mean  money?" 

"Yes." 

"No,  thank  you.  He's  got  to  do  that.  I'm  not  being 
nasty,  or — threatening — though  I've  got  some  letters 
of  his  that  he'd  hate  to  have  anyone  see — but  it's  up  to 
him  to  help  me  now  and  he's  jolly  well  got  to  do  it. 
Why,  I've  written  him  at  least  six  letters  explaining, 
and  begging  him  to  come  to  see  me,  and  he  hasn't  even 
answered.  He's  an  awful  coward,  you  know !" 

"He  must  be." 

As  she  spoke  a  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  Yvonne 
started.  "That's  him  now !" 

There  was  no  place  for  Mrs.  Dorset  to  go,  nor  after 
a  first  wild  impulse  of  flight  did  she  wish  to  go. 

She  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 


XXXIII 

YOU!  Good  God!"  Hood  halted  on  the  thresh- 
old, his  face  as  white  as  a  sheet,  an  ugly  hunted 
look  in  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  Archie,  it  is  I." 

Instinctively  they  both  disregarded  their  hostess  who 
watched  them  with  a  curious  distress  on  her  pretty  tear- 
dimmed  face. 

"You — you "  he   stammered.      "What  are  you 

doing  here  ?" 

Her  childish  helplessness,  one  of  the  qualities  that 
had  so  pleased  him,  had  all  gone.  There  stood  before 
him,  not  the  exquisite  little  Psyche  he  loved,  but  a 
shrewd-eyed,  cold-voiced  lady  with  a  calm  demeanor 
he  would  have  given  half  of  all  he  owned  to  be  able  to 
emulate. 

"I  came  to  see  Miss  Yvonne  Cavendish,"  she  an- 
swered quietly.  "We  have  had  our  talk,  so  I  will  go." 

"Wait !"  His  handsome  face  had  by  now  regained 
some  of  its  color,  and  he  was  able  to  control  his  eyes. 
They  looked  straight,  even  commandingly  at  her. 

"You  must  explain  to  me,  Amy !" 
184 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Surely  no  explanation  is  necessary." 

"But  it  is." 

"Then — someone,  I  don't  know  who,  sent  me  a  letter 
Miss  Cavendish  wrote  to  you — so  under  the  circum- 
stances I  thought  I  had  better  come  to  see  her.  She 
seemed  to  need — help." 

"You  have,"  he  declared  in  a  voice  so  firm,  so  con- 
vincing that  she  stared  at  him  in  amazement,  "been 
lied  to." 

"Lied  to  ?"    It  was  she  who  stammered  now. 

"Yes,  what  has — this  girl  been  telling  you?" 

"Miss  Cavendish  has  told  me  exactly  what  I  asked 
her  for — the  truth." 

He  turned  his  lambent  eyes  reproachfully  on  the 
girl.  "Yvonne,"  he  said  in  a  grieved  voice,  "what  have 
you  done  ?" 

The  poor  soul,  to  Amy's  horror,  burst  into  tears. 

"I — I  haven't  done  anything,"  she  sobbed,  with  a 
change  of  attitude  so  complete  that  the  other  woman 
wondered  for  a  second  if  she  had  gone  mad.  "You 
know  I  wouldn't  hurt  you,  Archie !  Only  I'm  not  well, 
and — you  didn't  come  or  write " 

Thoroughly  master  of  the  situation,  Hood  shook  his 
head  sadly. 

"Listen,  both  of  you,"  he  said.  "Yvonne,  when  did 
you  and  I  meet?  Wasn't  it  over  a  year  ago ?" 

"Yes." 

185 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"And — now  you  complain  that  of  late  I  have  not 
come  to  see  you  or — written.  My  dear,  it  was  wrong 
of  me — and  I  am  sorry.  I  quite  understand  your  being 
angry  with  me  because  I  neglected  you.  But — Amy" — 
he  turned  to  the  other  woman — "I  cannot  understand 
your  being  angry  with  me  for  neglecting  Miss  Caven- 
dish. If  I  had  come  to  see  her,  you  would  have  had  a 
right  to  be  outraged."  His  arms  folded  on  his  breast, 
his  head  held  high,  with  a  dignity  and  grace  inherited 
from  some  one  of  his  remote  Spanish  ancestors,  he 
dominated  the  situation,  looking  like  a  grieved  angeL 

"Surely  you,"  he  went  on,  still  to  Mrs.  Dorset, 
"know  the  world  well  enough  to  understand  this  very 
regrettable  affair?  You  have  every  right  to  my  future, 
but — I  deny  that  you  have  any  to  my  past." 

She  was  silent,  trying  to  find  a  way  out  of  the  toils 
he  was  weaving  round  her. 

"My  solicitor,"  he  then  declared,  turning  to  the  girl, 
who  was  crying  quietly,  "has  instructions  about  you. 
I  am  deeply  sorry  for  the  wrong  I  have  done  you  but — 
we  shall  never  meet  again." 

She  went  to  him,  her  hands  held  out.  "I  know,  I 
know,"  she  wailed,  "but  won't  you  kiss  me  once  more? 
Just  once  more?" 

Amy  Dorset  recoiled,  white  with  anger  and  disgust. 

"Please  let  me  pass,"  she  said ;  "I  am  going." 

Disregarding  the  girl,  he  barred  the  way.     "You 

186 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

must  let  me  come  with  you,  Amy,"  he  said.  "I  can't  let 
you  go  alone " 

"You  must." 

And  his  supreme  egotism  it  was  that  at  the  eleventh 
hour  lost  him  the  day.  In  his  utter  indifference  to  the 
feelings  of  anyone  but  himself,  he  forgot  the  very  ex- 
istence of  Yvonne  Cavendish. 

"Amy,"  he  cried  in  a  low  voice  with  an  odd  break  in 
it,  "for  God's  sake  listen  to  me.  I  tell  you  it  was  all 
over  the  moment  I  cared  for  you — months  ago !" 

And  at  that  the  poor  thing  he  was  deserting  could 
bear,  even  with  the  remarkable  patience  of  her  kind, 
no  more. 

"All  over  months  ago,  was  it?  Months  ago,  indeed. 
Look  here,  Miss — whatever  your  name  is — do  you  know 
that?" 

Tearing  open  the  drawer  of  the  little  writing-table, 
she  produced  a  photograph  which  she  held  out  to  Amy. 
"There's  his  picture  he  gave  me  not  four  weeks  back — 
see  the  date  ?  It  was  my  birthday — see  what  he  wrote  ? 
And  here's  another  thing" — she  held  out  a  little  gold 
cigarette-case.  "Perhaps  you'll  remember  that — you're 
sure  to  have  seen  it,  he  always  carried  it.  He  left  it 
here  last  Friday  week." 

Hood  was  worsted. 

"Yes,  I  remember  the  cigarette-case  very  well,"  Amy 
said  coldly.  Then,  turning  to  him,  "You  had  it  the 

187 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

day  we  all  motored  down  to  the  Braintons  for  polo. 
The  polo  match  was  on  the  eleventh." 

He  was,  in  his  unutterable  humiliation,  so  piteous  a 
spectacle  that  her  heart  smote  her. 

"I  shall  not  tell  anyone,"  she  said,  "you  need  not  fear. 
And" — opening  her  bag  she  took  out  the  letter  from 
Mrs.  Lowndes  and  held  it  out  to  him.  "Here  is  a  letter 
from  another  one.  Alys,  her  name  is.  Take  it !" 

Turning  to  the  girl,  she  held  out  her  hand. 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  you,"  she  said  gently,  "and  you 
must  let  me  help  you.  Wipe  your  eyes,  my — dear.  He 
— is  not  worth  a  tear." 

At  the  door  she  looked  again  at  Hood. 

"I  will  not  say  anything  to  you,"  she  began.  "You 
know  what  you  are,  and  you  know  that  I  know.  And 
that  is  all  that's  necessary.  Good-bye." 


XXXIV 

3 1st  July. 
MY  DEAR, 

She  has  gone,  our  poor  Undine — gone  to  stay  with  a 
woman  I  loathe,  and  my  heart  bleeds  for  her  in  her  despair. 
She  went  away  this  morning,  leaving  a  note  for  her  husband 
telling  him  nothing  about  Hood  except  she  is  never  going 
to  see  him  again,  and  saying  that  she  will  come  back  when 
she  can.  "A  thousand  regrets,"  I  told  her,  "do  not  make  one 
despair,"  but  what  she  feels  is  despair,  and  God  alone  can 
help  her.  Pray  for  her,  Anastasie-Claire,  your  prayers  will 
fly  like  white  birds  up  to  the  sky,  to  the  Great  Ear  of 
Mercy. 

And  now  I  will,  although  I  shall  see  you  so  soon,  tell  you 
all  about  it. 

The  morning  after  my  last  letter,  that  is,  yesterday,  I 
went,  as  she  bade  me,  to  see  Miss  Croxley. 

For  a  long  time  we  conferred,  my  new  ally,  and  I  hope 
I  may  say,  friend. 

The  letters  of  which  I  told  you  were  proof  conclusive  of 
the  man's  worthlessness — and  worse.  For  not  only  had  he 
deserted  one  of  the  women  at  a  time  when  he  should  have 
been,  if  he  could  be  no  more,  a  faithful  friend,  but  he  had 
deserted  her  in  a  way  contemptible  and  cowardly;  leaving 
the  poor  thing  in  absolute  silence,  neglecting  her  letters, 
ignoring  her  anguished  pleas  for  help. 

As  you  know,  my  cherished  one,  my  life  is  no  model  for 
young  men,  and  much  have  I  done  for  which  I  must  blush, 

189 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

but  it  is  not  given  to  me  to  comprehend  this  English  gentle- 
man's way  of  treating  a  woman  who  trusted  him.  That  is 
water  of  which  no  decent  man  could  drink. 

So  we  knew,  and  told  each  other,  Miss  Croxley  and  I,  that 
Mrs.  D.  must  not  put  her  heart  into  his  hands.  "He  would 
break  it,"  she  said,  "and  before  breaking  it  he  would  outrage 
it;  she  trusts  him  as  a  saint  trusts  God,  and  he  is — this !" 

It  interested  me  to  reflect  on  the  strangeness  of  a  worldly, 
unspiritual  woman  so  loving,  and  at  her  age — to  my  amaze- 
ment, I  had  learned  that  she  is  five-and-thirty !  She  is,  it 
appears,  quite  without  religion;  the  little  cynicisms  and 
skepticisms  that  are  current  amongst  London  society 
women  were  continually  on  her  lips,  and  I  had  felt,  when 
I  called  her  Undine,  that  her  soul  was  a  thing  rudimentary, 
unknown  to  herself,  but — alas,  no  religion  at  all !  Poor 
soul! 

And  now  she  had  put,  as  they  say  here,  all  her  eggs  into 
one  basket,  and  Miss  Croxley  and  I  knew  that  the  basket 
was,  so  to  speak,  "made  in  Germany" — cheap  and  useless, 
and  what  is  more,  already  worn  out  and  broken ! 

"If  I  showed  her  this  letter  she  would  never  speak  to  me 
again,"  Miss  Croxley  said. 

"No." 

"She  is,  for  all  her  pretty  voice  and  gentle  manners,  a 
perfect  pig  of  obstinacy."  It  is  customary  here  to  call 
one's  nearest  and  dearest,  pigs  and  even  swine,  dear  friend, 
so  forgive  the  ugly  word ! 

"And  if  you  showed  them" — she  went  on,  but  this  of 
course  I  refused  to  do.  It  was  an  impossibility. 

To  be  sure  she  had,  to  my  surprise,  told  me  of  her  happi- 
ness, but  that  is  a  thing  very  different  from  allowing  a  com- 
parative stranger  to  behold  her  despair. 

"If  you  told  her  that  you  knew  him  to  be  a  bad  man?"  I 
suggested,  at  the  end  of  my  Latin. 

190 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Miss  Croxley  shook  her  head.  "I  have  told  her  a  thou- 
sand times  that  I  don't  like  him,  and  she  only  laughed.  Now 
she  would  not  laugh — she  would  fight  for  him,  and  hate 
me !"  To  cut  it  short,  we  sent  the  two  letters  (not  her  own, 
which  Miss  Croxley  kept)  to  the  poor  lady  in  a  typewritten 
envelope  without  a  word. 

It  went  to  my  heart  to  hurt  her  thus,  but  it  was  right  that 
she  should  know,  and  after  all  such  blows  are  best  borne 
alone. 

I  went  my  way,  troubled  indeed,  but  selfishly  relieved 
that  my  part  in  the  matter  was,  as  I  believed,  over !  Little 
did  I  know. 

I  was  dining  at  the  Italian  Embassy,  and  when  I  arrived, 
amongst  the  last  of  the  guests,  I  was  told  that  my  dinner 
partner  was  to  be  Mrs.  D. 

I  bowed  and  went  in  search  of  her.  I  knew  that  she 
must  have  had  the  letters,  and  the  first  man  I  had  seen  as  I 
went  upstairs  was  Hood  himself.  She  was  standing  by  an 
open  window,  dressed  as  she  often  is,  all  in  white.  As  I 
approached  her  I  thought  that  she  could  not  possibly  know, 
so  young,  so  beautiful,  so  gay  she  looked  as  she  talked  to 
the  men. 

But  as  I  kissed  her  hand,  I  knew.  Her  hand  felt  like 
damp  marble,  and  the  color  on  her  face  was  artificial. 

She  greeted  me  as  usual,  and  almost  immediately  we  went 
down  to  dinner. 

Will  you  believe  it,  dear  soul,  your  Jules  was  as  tongue- 
tied  as  a  scorpion !  I  could  not  think  of  a  word  to  say,  and 
finally  she  broke  the  silence  that  seemed  to  oppress  me  like 
an  evil  vapor. 

"I  am  so  hungry,"  she  said. 

The  piteousness  of  the  lie,  as  dinner  went  on,  nearly 
brought  tears  to  my  eyes,  but  I  talked.  Just  Heaven,  how 
I  talked ! 

191 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

I  gabbled  of  the  Russian  dancers,  of  the  weather,  of  books 
— I  made  bad  jokes,  I  was  noisy. 

It  was  all  I  could  do. 

She  answered  me  occasionally,  pretended  to  be  interested, 
pretended  to  eat.  When  she  talked  to  her  other  neighbor 
things  were  a  little  better,  and  I  had  a  rest,  only  to  begin 
again. 

It  was  a  ghastly  meal,  but  I  had  my  reward. 

As  the  ladies  rose  to  leave  the  room,  Mrs.  D.  turned  to 
me. 

"Thank  you,  monsieur,"  she  said. 

While  I  drank  my  port,  and  smoked  the  Corona  I  de- 
served, if  ever  a  man  did,  I  watched  Hood. 

Have  I  told  you  that  he  is  of  the  well-bred  Spanish  type  ? 
Very  dark  and  brilliantly  colored.  His  hair  is  vividly  black, 
his  large  eyes  glow  like  black  fire,  his  well-modeled  cheeks 
are  of  a  fine  rich  brown. 

Tonight,  I  was  glad  to  see,  his  cheeks  had  paled  and 
looked  oddly  like  some  kind  of  clay.  The  lines  of  his  face 
looked  not  exactly  friable,  but  argillaceous,  malleable,  as  if 
a  molding  hand  could  easily  alter  his  whole  countenance. 
His  mouth,  usually  a  very  handsome,  strong-looking  one, 
had  stretched  and  drooped  in  a  way  that  meant  great  pain 
and  great  anger,  and,  unless  I  was  much  mistaken,  some 
kind  of  fright. 

Something  had  happened  to  him,  as  well  as  to  her,  I  re- 
joiced to  decide.  He  was  suffering  horribly,  and  base 
though  I  knew  the  fellow  to  be,  his  suffering  was  not  wholly 
ignoble. 

"You  look  not  quite  well,"  I  said  to  him  smoothly. 

He  started  and  replied  that  he  had  a  headache. 

A  headache !  Interiorly,  I  laughed,  but  I  said  no  more. 
An  hour  later  Mrs.  D.  came  to  me  in  the  drawing-room. 

"M.  Pasquier  le  Breton,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  am  going 

192 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

home.  Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  come  with  me  as  far  as 
my  door  ?  I  fear  I  am  going  to  faint." 

I  followed  her  in  silence,  and  in  silence  we  drove  to 
Park  Lane.  I  got  out  and  while  the  footman  opened  the 
garden  door  with  his  key,  I  turned  to  help  the  lady  alight. 

She  put  one  foot — a  little  foot  no  bigger  than  a  swan's 
bill — on  the  step,  and  then  with  a  sigh,  pitched  out  into  my 
arms  in  a  dead  faint! 

When  she  came  to,  she  sat  up  on  the  sofa  where  we  had 
laid  her,  and  pushed  back  her  wet  hair  from  her  forehead. 

"You  may  go  now,  thanks,"  she  said  quietly  to  her  maid, 
and  the  butler.  "M.  Pasquier  le  Breton  will  stay  with  me 
till  Mr.  Dorset  comes  in." 

Then,  after  the  door  had  closed,  and  a  long  pause  had 
ensued,  she  said  to  me,  "You  have  been  very  kind,  monsieur. 
You  have  seen  that  I  am  suffering." 

I  bowed.     "I  have  seen,  madame." 

"Well,"  she  went  on,  "I  am  going  to  tell  you  about  it." 

It  would  have  been  insincere  of  me  to  protest,  so  I  merely 
expressed  my  appreciation  of  the  honor,  and  she  went  on. 

"I  love  someone,"  she  said,  in  English,  to  my  relief,  for 
tragedy  in  her  strange  French  would  have  been  dreadful. 
"And  he  is  bad.  He  is  a  vile  and  bestial  man  and  he  is  a  liar 
without  honor." 

"Dear  madame,"  I  answered  amazed  yet  gladdened  by 
her  courage  in  facing  the  truth,  and  her  bitterness  in  ex- 
pressing it,  "you  cannot  love  a  vile  and  bestial  liar." 

She  laughed,  a  hundred  cynical  little  lines  that  I  had 
never  seen  before,  springing  to  her  face,  ageing  and  chang- 
ing it  horribly. 

"Until  seven  hours  ago  I  thought  him  the  noblest  of  men. 
My  very  soul  I  gave  to  him.  And  now  I  know  that  he  is  a 
thing  whose  hand  no  honest  man,  no  decent  women  ought 
to  touch.  Since  I  have  loved  him  he  has  loved — as  he  calls  it 

193 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

— other  women ;  not  one,  but  several.  The  poor  drabs  in  the 
street  are  clean  and  pure  compared  to  him." 

"Hush — hush/'  I  murmured,  for  indeed,  dear  saint,  her 
bitterness  and  loathing  were  hideous  to  see  and  hear. 

"It  is  all  true,  monsieur.  I  am  no  young  girl — I  am 
thirtyjfive  years  old,  I  have  lived  for  fifteen  years  in  Lon- 
don where  people  discuss  everything,  and  do  most  things. 
I  know  that  men  are  not  like  women,  and  that  many  men  are 
wicked.  But  this  man — he  went  from  me  to  other  women, 
and  from  them  came  back  to  me.  His  lips  were  always  full 
of  kisses — a  kind  of  great  composite  kiss  made  from  the 
mouths  of  dozens  of  women.  Ah,  bah !"  she  broke  off  with 
an  expression  of  actual  physical  nausea.  "Shall  I  ever  feel 
clean  again!" 

It  was  dreadful — dreadful. 

To  try  to  console  her  I  attempted  to  protect  him.  I  ex- 
plained that  he  might  be  only  weak,  not  a  monster;  that  he 
might  be  one  of  the  unfortunate  men  whom  women  pursue; 
that  he  might  not  have  been  able  to  disentangle  himself  yet 
from  old  liaisons  made  before  he  met  her. 

Then  she  told  me  about  the  wretched  girl  whose  letter  I 
had  seen. 

"She  is  not  a  bad  woman,"  she  declared,  "she  is  young  and 
pretty,  and — unprotected.  Her  husband  has  deserted  her 
and  she  worked  until  he  met  her.  And  even  now  she — loves 
him." 

I  wept,  but  she  did  not.  Her  little  face  so  deeply  lined, 
so  old,  so  terrible,  looked  like  stone,  and  she  had  no  tears. 

Then  she  showed  me  a  letter  from  the  man,  received 
while  she  dressed  for  dinner. 

It  was  not  a  bad  letter,  but  it  showed  no  real  understand- 
ing of  her  misery.  His  pain  was  very  clearly  expressed, 
and  his  plea  for  pardon  rang  true.  He  had  been  a  fool  and 
weak,  but  he  loved  her  and  he  couldn't  bear  her  anger. 

194 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"You  see,"  she  cried,  when  I  had  read  it,  "he  is  only 
unhappy  because  he  is  found  out." 

"Madame,  discovery  is  the  most  frequent  door  to  the  con- 
fessional," I  answered. 

She  paced  the  great  room,  twisting  her  little  bejeweled 
hands  together,  moving  for  all  her  misery  so  beautifully 
that  it  rejoiced  my  eyes  to  see  her,  and  as  she  walked  she 
talked,  unburdening  her  poor  heart  to  me  rather  than  to 
some  intimate  friend  in  the  inscrutable  way  of  women. 

Then  suddenly — and  this  was  the  worst — she  flung  her- 
self into  a  great  chair  in  which  she  looked  like  a  little 
wounded  white  bird,  and  cried. 

She  sobbed,  muttering  and  moaning,  and,  shall  I  tell  you  ? 
— even  whispering  in  a  terrible,  rough  voice,  "Oh,  damn 
him,  damn  him!"  and  then  moaning  again,  to  split  the 
heart,  that  she  loved  him  so,  loved  him  so 

It  was  a  dreadful  half-hour. 

Finally  she  ceased,  and  after  a  few  minutes  rose,  her 
face  red  and  swollen  and  very  dirty  from  the  cosmetic  on 
her  lashes. 

She  came  to  me,  holding  out  her  hand. 

"I  have  no  handkerchief,"  she  said;  "will  you  lend  me 
yours  ?" 

By  a  happy  chance,  my  Anastasie-Claire,  my  handker- 
chief was  one  of  the  birthday  dozen  you  made  for  me.  It 
seemed  to  me,  as  she  wiped  her  poor  eyes  and  blew  her  poor 
nose,  that  healing  must  be  in  the  cambric  hemmed  and  em- 
broidered by  your  dear  hands. 

Who  knows  ? 


PART    II 


XXXV 

• 

I  WILL  take  a  little  walk,  Clementine,"  Mrs.  Dorset 
said,  dropping  her  silver-colored  chiffon  veil  again 
after  her  contemplation  of  that  portion  of  the 
chauffeur  that  was  not  under  the  car,  "and  when  Don- 
ald is  ready  you  can  Come  for  me." 

Clementine,  who  sat  at  the  edge  of  the  road,  her  mis- 
tress's jewel-case  on  her  lap,  desperation  on  her  face, 
rose.  "Very  well,  madame.  Where  may  I  find  madame?" 

Mrs.  Dorset  glanced  at  the  very  small  village  sitting 
in  the  lap  of  the  downs.  "I  don't  think  you  could  miss 
me  if  you  tried,"  she  said,  "but  I  shall  go  up  the  hill 
to  those  ruins — you  see? — among  the  trees."  Then 
she  walked  up  the  dusty  road. 

It  was  three  o'clock  of  a  very  warm  day;  the  way- 
side weeds  were  white  with  dust  and  drooping  in  the 
sun;  no  birds  sang;  the  leaves  on  the  trees  near  the 
hilltop  might  have  been  cut  out  of  tin,  so  still  and 
shiny  they  were. 

Two  cows  stood  looking  over  the  edge  of  the  road 
where  it  went  through  a  deep  cutting,  and  Mrs.  Dorset 
looked  at  them  with  the  passive  enmity  with  which  one 

199 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

regards  antipathetic  strangers  in  the  street.  In  her 
neatly  cut  buff  coat  and  skirt  and  close  hat  that  with 
its  evenly  placed  wings  looked  like  a  classic  helmet,  she 
was  an  unexpected  little  vision,  oddly  out  of  place  on 
the  lonely  spot. 

The  road  gave  a  sharp  bend  ten  yards  from  the  car, 
so  that  to  the  man  walking  toward  her  over  the  downs 
she  was  the  only  human  being  in  sight. 

The  man  was  walking,  it  appeared  to  her,  in  a  kind 
of  sea  of  weather-beaten  blanket  stuff,  and  he  carried 
a  staff.  As  he  drew  nearer  she  saw  that  he  was  a 
shepherd  with  his  flock. 

"Is  there  a  garage  in  the  village?"  she  asked  him  as 
he  made  her  a  rough  bow. 

"A — a  what,  miss?" 

"A  garage.  A  place  for  motors — motor-cars,  you 
know.  My  car  has  broken  down,  a  little  way  back,  and 
I  am  in  a  hurry." 

The  shepherd  shook  his  head.  No,  he  told  her,  there 
was  no  place  for  motors  in  the  village.  There  were  also 
no  motors. 

As  he  went  on  she  called  after  him,  "Is  there  a  post 
office?" 

He  looked  back  and  nodded,  not  without  pride.  Yes, 
there  was  a  post  office  and  the  telegraph. 

Then  he  disappeared  in  his  little  sea  of  sheep,  his 
dog  walking  lazily  beside  him. 

200 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Mrs.  Dorset  walked  on.  The  village,  she  now  saw, 
was  even  smaller  than  she  had  thought,  and  the  cot- 
tages which  were  for  the  most  part  white — she  noticed 
one  whose  owner's  taste  had  declared  itself  in  washing 
it  a  brilliant  blue — were  thatched.  Dahlias  flaunted, 
ugliest  of  flowers,  in  the  little  gardens,  but  there  were 
crimson  ramblers  everywhere  and  numerous  other 
roses. 

She  passed  the  church,  a  comparatively  new  build- 
ing, evidently  added  to  a  squat  and  ancient  ivy-draped 
tower;  the  gravestones,  moss-grown  and  ancient,  were 
shaded  by  huge  elms. 

The  village  was  made  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  and  in 
the  tiny  square,  where  geese  waddled  about,  enjoying 
the  wet  round  the  old-fashioned  pump,  was  the  post 
office,  a  white  cottage  bearing  its  placard  with  an  air 
of  pride,  the  scarlet  little  box  shining  gayly  under  a 
tree  near  by. 

Mrs.  Dorset  stood  still  by  the  pump,  reading  the 
sign  over  the  door :  "Bird's  Fountain."  What  an  odd 
name !  And  all  the  inhabitants  are  asleep.  Ah,  there's 
the  post  mistress,  I'll  go  and  send  my  wire." 

Pushing  open  the  gate,  she  clattered  up  the  mossy 
flagstones  on  her  high  heels,  and  went  into  the  little 
shop.  An  old  woman  with  a  pink  bow  under  her  leath- 
ery chin  and  a  pair  of  very  large-eyed  spectacles  on 
her  nose,  rose  from  her  chair,  and  went  on  knitting. 

201 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"I — can  I  send  a  telegram?" 

"Yes,  miss " 

In  a  corner,  between  a  big  cheese  and  a  tin  of  biscuits, 
was  a  sheet  of  dusty  blotting-paper,  a  penny  bottle  of 
ink,  and  a  pen  like  a  rusty  pin.  Amy  took  off  her 
glove  and  tried  to  write. 

"Sir  Acton  Goodwin,"  she  began,  and  then  the  pen 
tore  a  hole  in  the  form  and  sent  a  shower  of  ink  over 
her  little  hand. 

Now  she  was  as  fastidious  as  a  cat  and  an  inky 
finger  she  could  not  endure.  "Oh,"  she  cried,  plunging 
the  finger  into  her  mouth  and  sucking  it. 

The  old  woman  smiled  at  her.  "Did  ye  prick  it?" 
she  asked  sympathetically. 

"No,  but  ink  has  got  under  the  nail " 

As  she  spoke  the  shop  door  opened  and  an  immense 
old  gentleman  came  in.  He  was  vast  rather  than  fat, 
for  he  looked  as  though  he  needed  blowing  up,  like  a 
half-inflated  balloon  toy.  His  clothes  were  too  loose, 
his  skin  was  too  loose ;  his  white  hair — he  wore  no  hat — 
was  like  lumps  of  raw  cotton. 

"I  want  a  new  rake,  Mrs.  Codling,  please,"  he  said, 
looking  with  perfectly  open  pleasure  at  Mrs.  Dorset. 
"Mine  is— bust." 

Then  he  turned  to  Amy.  "I  hear,  madame,  that  your 
car  has  broken  down.  Your  chauffeur  says  he'll  be 
another  two  hours.  My  name  is  Bullace,  and  I  should 

202 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

be  delighted  if  you'd  come  up  to  my  house  to  wait  anid 
rest." 

iWhile  Amy  hesitated,  in  her  surprise,  Mrs.  Codling, 
her  hand  before  her  mouth,  whispered  audibly  to  him, 
"You  forgot  to  tell  her  you're  the  Rector,  sir." 

"Oh  yes,"  he  said,  beaming,  "I  am  the  Rector.  Will 
you  come?" 

Amy  still  hesitated  for  a  second,  for  she  disliked 
parsons,  and  was,  moreover,  unused  to  unconventional 
invitations.  His  smile,  however,  was  so  friendly  and 
he  looked  so  delighted  with  her,  that  she  decided  to 

g°- 

"Thanks  very  much,"  she  said,  "it  is  kind  of  you  to 

ask  me — I'll  come  with  pleasure." 

Taking  the  rake  Mrs.  Codling  was  holding  out  to  him, 
he  opened  the  door.  "Now  that  is  charming  of  you. 
It's  cool  in  my  house  and  there  will  be  cakes  for  tea. 
All  young  ladies  love  cakes !" 

She  followed  him,  amused  but  flattered  by  his  mis- 
take, and  together  they  walked  up  the  cobbled  streets 
the  lumpiness  of  which  caused  her  acute  suffering. 

"The  Rectory  is  at  the  top  of  the  road,"  Mr.  Bullace 
said.  "Inconvenient  in  rainy  weather,  but  the  view  is 
very  fine.  It's  built  of  stones  from  the  Abbey." 

"The  Abbey?" 

He  nodded,  his  lumpy  hair  bouncing  on  his  sun- 
burned old  brow.  "Yes.  I  often  wonder  the  ghosts 

203 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

don't  come  and  claw  some  of  them  out — in  the  night, 
you  know." 

"So  you  have  ghosts?" 

Again  he  nodded,  quite  seriously.  "Oh  yes,  I  believe 
there  are  several,  but  of  course  7  never  see  'em.  Church 
of  England,  you  know.  They  wouldn't  like  that !" 

Mrs.  Dorset,  wondering  if  he  were  quite  sane,  stole  a 
look  at  him. 

His  very  large  mouth,  tender  and  whimsical,  wore  a 
thoughtful  expression,  and  his  brown  eyes — Balzac 
would  have  called  them  yellow — were  evidently  not 
seeing  anything  at  all. 

"Where  are  the  ghosts?"  she  persisted,  glad  in  her 
heart-sickness,  of  any  momentary  distraction. 

Carefully  stepping  over  a  large  earthworm  who  was 
journeying  over  the  dusty  path  they  had  just  reached, 
on  passing  the  last  cottage,  the  old  man  answered  her. 

"In  the  Abbey,  of  course." 

She  burst  out  laughing,  such  pretty  silvery  laughter 
that  he  beamed  at  her  in  delight.  "And  where  is  the 
Abbey?" 

"Now  you  are  thinking  that  I  am  mad,  and  casting 
your  eye  about  for  my  keeper,"  he  cried.  "Well — I'm 
not  mad — not  nearly  so  mad,  for  instance,  as  Yester- 
with — and  there's  the  Abbey." 

They  had  come  to  a  little  footbridge  under  which  a 
tiny  thread  of  brown  water  crept  between  thick  borders 

204 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

of  weeds  and  tiny  aquatic  green  stuff,  and  beyond  the 
footbridge  the  path  joined  an  ancient  flagged  walk  that, 
in  broad,  shallow  terraces,  made  its  zigzag  way  up  the 
hill  on  which  stood  the  ruins  pointed  out  by  Mrs.  Dor- 
set to  her  maid,  as  the  probable  goal  of  her  walk. 

"Oh,  it  was  an  abbey?" 

"Yes.     The  Abbey  of  the  Fountain  of  the  Birds." 

"What  an  odd  name !" 

The  old  man  laughed.  "Isn't  it  pretty,  though? 
You  see  in  French — VAbbaye  de  la  Fontaine  des  Oi- 
seaux — it  is  very  beautiful." 

Amy  plodded  patiently  up  the  steep  terrace,  her  poor 
little  feet  in  their  patent-leather  shoes  burning  like 
coals,  her  breath  coming  in  short  pants. 

"Why  was  it  in  French,"  she  asked,  "and  what  have 
birds  to  do  with  an  Abbey?  Or  with  a  fountain?" 

At  the  first  turning,  where  the  path  doubled  back 
nearly  parallel  with  its  last  lap,  Mr.  Bullace  stood 
still. 

"I'll  show  you  in  a  moment.  Now  look  down  and 
you'll  see  my  house." 

Surprised  at  the  height  to  which  the  gradual  incline 
had  brought  them,  she  gazed  at  the  landscape. 

"Is  that  the  house — with  the  sort  of  red  tower  be-^ 
hind  it?" 

"No.  That's  Dove  Cottage — the  red  tower  is  the 
old  columbarium,  and  square  ones  like  that  are  very 

205 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

rare,  I  can  tell  you !  That's  my  house — the  one  behind 
the  copper  beeches.  It  is,"  he  added,  "a  perfectly  beau- 
tiful house." 

Amy  gazed  at  him,  surprised,  for  his  enthusiasm  was 
of  a  keenness  not  usually  displayed  by  a  man  about  his 
own  possessions. 

"Very  old,  I  suppose?  Is  it  Jacobean?"  she  asked  to 
please  him. 

"No — Oh,  no.      It  was  built  in  1850,   I  believe;  a 
wonderful  house — but  you'll  see,  you'll  see.     Can  you' 
go  on  now?" 

She  had,  in  accepting  his  invitation  to  his  house,  not 
bargained  for  a  long  uphill  walk  in  the  blazing  sun,  but 
not  quite  liking  to  explain  this,  she  assented  and  they 
went  on. 

Presently  they  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  stood 
leaning  against  a  low  stone  wall  which  seemed  to  have 
been  built  to  prevent  people  straying  over  the  edge  and 
rolling  down. 

Amy  saw  that  the  ruin  of  the  Abbey  stood  on  a  kind 
of  promontory  jutting  into  a  quiet  pool  of  lower  land; 
at  their  feet,  beyond  the  two  houses  they  had  looked 
back  at  on  their  way  up,  lay  the  village,  beyond  which 
the  downs  rolled  away  to  the  west;  and  to  the  left  a 
much  sharper  declivity  than  that  which  they  had 
climbed,  led  to  a  great  gray-white  wound  in  the  earth 
half  grown  over  with  grass  and  some  few  young  trees. 

206 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"That's  the  old  chalk-pit,  where  Annie  Louise 
Whiteman  was  murdered  in  1842.  You  remember,"  he 
added  pleasantly. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't,"  she  laughed,  and  with  a  sudden 
backward  toss  of  his  lumpy  hair  that  seemed  character- 
istic, he  apologized. 

"Of  course  you  don't  remember,"  he  said.  "How 
stupid  of  me !  If  it's  clear  enough,  we  can  see  the  sea 
from  the  other  side  of  the  ruins.  Let's  go  and  look." 

The  Abbey  had  apparently  never  been  a  very  large 
one ;  the  whole  top  of  the  hill  would  have  held  only  about 
half  of,  say,  Battle.  And  it  was  very  ruinous.  The 
thick  walls  had  fallen,  only,  it  seemed,  to  be  cleared 
away  for  use  elsewhere,  for  but  little  remained  of  ma- 
sonry beyond  the  lower  parts  of  walls  that  still  stood. 

Of  the  chapel,  however,  there  were  three  pointed  win- 
dows nearly  intact,  and  one  wall  sprang  up  strangely 
perfect  towards  the  roof  that  had  long  since  gone. 

"And  here,"  the  old  clergyman  explained,  radiant 
with  the  joy  of  the  amateur  cicerone,  "was  the  refec- 
tory. One  of  the  seats  is  still  in  the  church — it's  over 
five  hundred  years  old !" 

"Dear  me !" 

"The  cells  were  here.  Look,  this  one  is  quite  plain — 
there  were  eighty,  they  say,  long  ago.  And  many  people 
believe  that  Richard  II  came  here  once  and  made  a  re- 
treat." 

207 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"I  saw  Tree  do  Richard  II,"  she  answered;  "he  was 
splendid  in  the  scene  where  he  gave  up  the  crown " 

From  the  east  a  cool  breeze  now  came  to  them  across 
the  downs,  and  standing  outside  the  refectory  they 
watched  a  blue  line  that  was  the  sea. 

"It's  a  lovely  afternoon,"  Mrs.  Dorset  said,  as  if  the 
weather  were  attributable  to  her  host.  "I  should  think 
my  chauffeur  must  be  nearly  ready.  Oh!"  she  cried,  in 
a  different  voice.  "I  quite  forgot  to  send  my  telegram !" 

Mr.  Bullace  faced  her,  his  lower  lip  thrust  out 
thoughtfully. 

"Dear  me,  did  you?"  he  said.  "It  was  doubtless  that 
pen  that  put  you  off.  It's  the  worst  pen  in  the  world. 
However,  there's  a  better  one  at  Minge.  Are  you  going 
through  Minge?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I'm  going  to  Long 
Powsley." 

"Never  heard  of  it.    Where  is  it?" 

"I  don't  even  know  that!  Yes — it's  at  Herbinton. 
I'm  going  to  stop  with  some  people  named  Beauchamp 
— 'neither  the  pen  nor  the  pill  maker,' "  she  quoted, 
laughing. 

The  old  man  did  not  answer ;  he  was  gazing  intently 
at  the  sea.  Finally  he  asked  abruptly,  "Does  your 
mother  know  these  people?" 

"My  mother?  My  mother  has  been  dead  for  over 
thirty  years." 

208 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

As  she  spoke,  she  threw  back  her  veil  and  mopped  her 
brow  in  a  gingerly  way  with  her  handkerchief. 

The  old  man  turned,  and  was  about  to  say  some- 
thing which,  as  he  saw  her  face,  suddenly  and  ob- 
viously changed  to  something  else.  "Bless  my  soul," 
he  exclaimed,  very  loudly,  "and  I  thought  she  was 
young!" 

Mrs.  Dorset  flushed.  His  remark  was  a  genuine  and 
painful  shock  to  her.  For  a  moment  she  stared  at  him, 
handkerchief  in  hand,  indignant  words  gathering  cha- 
otically in  her  mind. 

They  were  never  spoken,  however,  for  she  knew  by 
his  next  speech  that  he  was  perfectly  unconscious  of 
having  uttered  the  sentence  that  had  hurt  her. 

"That's  right,"  he  said  kindly,  "you  will  be  cooler 
with  your  veil  up.  And  now  you  must  come  and  see 
the  fountain." 

She  followed  him  round  to  the  north  side  of  the 
promontory  and  sat  down  on  a  moss-grown  stone 
bench  at  the  top  of  the  slope  which  was  a  very  gentle 
one. 

Just  before  them  there  were  no  villages,  and  very 
few  isolated  houses.  Indeed,  the  only  house  near  at 
hand  was  the  one  with  the  columbarium,  and  that  was 
well  to  the  left.  From  it  a  narrow  unpaved  path 
twisted  its  way  up  the  hill,  and  about  half  its  way  to 
where  the  old  man  and  Mrs.  Dorset  sat,  only  immedi- 

209 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

ately  under  them,  was  something  at  which  Mr.  Bullace 
waved  an  explanatory  and  proud  hand.  "That,"  he 
said  with  a  touch  of  ceremony  in  his  big  voice,  "is  the 
fountain." 

Amy  leaned  forward  and  looked. 

There  was  half-way  down  the  gradual  incline,  a  kind 
of  natural  terrace  and  in  the  middle  of  the  terrace  what 
at  first  looked  like  a  large  pool  of  greenish  brown 
water. 

As  she  looked  she  saw  that  it  was  not  a  pool ;  it  was 
a  large  basin  or  cavity  of  stone  sunk  to  the  level  of  its 
curled-back  edge  into  the  earth  and  so  overgrown  with 
little  water-plants  and  mosses  of  various  shades  of 
green  and  brown  and  copper  and  gold  as  to  seem  almost 
incorporate  with  the  downs. 

At  one  side  appeared  a  thing  like  a  large  bubble  that 
never  burst,  and  round  the  bubble  the  water  curved  and 
curled,  and  doubled  and  dimpled,  settling  down  only  at 
a  distance  of  a  foot  to  a  broken  quiet  that  a  little 
further  still  became  the  brown  motionless  mirror  one 
first  perceived. 

"How  lovely !" 

Amy's  cry  of  pleasure  was  involuntary,  for  the  place 
was  full  of  an  odd,  peaceful  charm  unlike  any  she  had 
ever  felt.  The  old  clergyman  did  not  answer,  and  turn- 
ing after  a  moment  she  saw  that  it  was  for  the  best  of 
reasons.  He  was  not  there. 

210 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Presently,  on  going  to  the  western  end  of  the  ruins 
she  saw  him  running  with  his  odd,  heavy  nimbleness 
down  the  terrace  path.  He  had  evidently  forgotten  all 
about  her. 


XXXVI 

AS  she  went  slowly  back  to  the  stone  bench  it 
seemed  to  Mrs.  Dorset  that  not  only  the  old 
man  but  the  whole  world  had  forgotten  her; 
Hood  she  felt  in  an  odd  way  no  longer  existed;  he 
never  had  existed;  she  had  blown  him  into  a  kind  of 
being,  like  a  soap-bubble,  through  the  pipe  of  her  imag- 
ination, and  his  beauty  had  been  as  prismatic,  as  fic- 
titious as  that  of  a  soap-bubble.  He  had  gone ;  he  was 
not.  And  yet,  how  he  had  hurt  her ! 

"Oh,  the  brute,  the  beast,"  she  'wailed  suddenly, 
under  her  breath.  "I  hate  him,"  and  she  scrubbed  her 
mouth  furiously  with  her  handkerchief. 

She  was  a  proud  woman,  although  she  was  vain,  and 
since  the  night  before,  when  she  had  so  cried  before 
Pasquier  le  Breton,  she  had  not  shed  a  tear. 

To  Clementine  she  had  said  only  that  she  had  de- 
cided suddenly  to  go  to  Mrs.  Beauchamp's  instead  of 
to  Deauville. 

And  to  the  eternal  glory  and  honor  of  Rowland 
Immenham,  be  it  said  that  the  good  Clementine  had  not 
one  inkling  of  the  real  state  of  affairs ! 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Dorset,  on  coming  in  very  late  after  walking  back 
from  Bayswater,  where  he  had  conferred  with  Miss 
Croxley,  had  made  no  attempt  to  see  his  wife,  but  gone 
straight  to  his  room. 

In  the  morning  when  the  car  was  at  the  door  she 
went  to  his  study. 

"I  am  just  off,  Clow,"  she  said,  drawing  on  her 
gloves. 

He  looked  up  from  his  writing.    "Off,  my  dear?" 

"Yes.  I  am  going  to  Molly  Beauchamp's.  After 
all  I  shan't  go  to  France.  I  am  tired,  and  a  rest  will 
do  me  good " 

This,  he  thought,  amazed,  when  their  last  talk  had 
been  of  her  love  for  Hood ! 

But  he  said  little.  Lawrence  had  told  him  little,  for 
her  misery  was  almost  as  great  as  Amy's,  and  she  could 
not  bring  her  tongue  to  the  telling  of  details. 

"He  is — not  good,  Clow,"  she  had  said,  "and  she 
knows,  and  is  hurt." 

And  he  had  answered,  in  few  phrases,  that  he  under- 
stood. Then,  looking  into  her  eyes,  he  had  shaken 
hands  with  Lawrence,  and  left  her. 

To  his  wife  he  now  said,  "And  what  about — Hood?" 

He  was  horrified  and  frightened  by  her  laugh  which 
was  a  dreadful  one.  "I — was  wrong,"  she  said,  her  face 
suddenly  gray,  with  grayer  lips.  "I  shall  not  see  him 


again." 


213 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

After  a  pause  she  added,  "Send  my  letters  on  to 
Long  Powsley,  will  you,  Clow?  And — thank  you  for 
being  so  good  to  me.  I'll  come  back  when — when  I 
can." 

They  shook  hands  with  some  ceremony,  and  he  let  her 
go,  for  she  seemed  to  him  very  much  a  stranger  into 
whose  affairs  he  had  no  right  to  inquire. 

Misery  swept  over  her  and  she  began  to  cry,  "Archie, 
Archie,"  she  moaned,  "Oh,  you  beast — Oh,  my  dear, 
sweet  love !" 

A  finer,  greater-souled  woman  might  possibly,  know- 
ing what  she  knew  of  the  man,  have  been  able  to  cast 
off  her  love  for  him  as  a  snake  casts  off  its  worn, 
spoiled  skin.  The  world  is  full  of  interests,  of  deeds  to 
be  done,  of  endurances  to  be  made,  of  thoughts  to  be 
thought,  that  a  finer  woman,  having  made  Amy  Dor- 
set's mistake,  could  probably  have  put  it  from  her  as  a 
strong  nature  puts  an  encroaching  disease,  and  turned 
to  other,  better  things. 

She,  however,  could  not.  In  her  whole,  petty,  useless, 
silly  little  life,  her  love  for  Archie  Hood  had  been  the 
outstanding  dominating  sentiment,  and  it  had  no  wor- 
thier rivals.  She  hated  the  man,  now,  with  a  strength 
of  venom  surprising  to  herself ;  she  would  have  loved  to 
hurt  him,  to  avenge  herself  on  him,  but — she  wept  for 
him  as  she  sat  on  the  bench.  She  wept  for  the  sound 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

of  his  voice,  the  splendor  of  his  eyes,  the  touch  of  his 
hand. 

She  loved  him,  and  bad  as  she  knew  him  to  be,  she 
would  have  forgiven  him  had  he  appeared  in  that  mo- 
ment of  her  ignoble  weakness. 

But  he  did  not  come,  and  after  a  while  her  tears 
ceased  burning  her  eyes,  and  she  took  out  of  her  bag 
a  little  gold-mounted  mirror  and  looked  at  herself. 

"Ugh,  what  a  horror!"  she  said,  aloud,  dabbing 
powder  over  her  poor  swollen  nose.  "What  a  fool  I 
am!  Clementine  will  see,  and  so  will  Molly.  What  a 
face !" 

Miserably  she  pulled  down  her  veil,  and  then  rising, 
started  down  the  slope  by  the  winding  path  that  led 
past  the  fountain. 

"It  must  be  nearly  five,"  she  thought,  "and  the  car 
will  be  ready.  I'll  stop  and  wire  Acton  Goodwin.  He's 
horrid,  but — he's  amusing  and — Archie  hates  him !" 

She  remembered  that  her  husband,  too,  detested  the 
baronet,  and  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Clow  won't 
mind,  he  has  Lawrence."  At  the  fountain  she  paused. 
The  sound  of  the  entering  rivulet  in  the  corner  was  a 
pleasant  burbling,  refreshing  to  the  ear.  The  water 
seen  from  close  at  hand  looked  clear  and  fresh.  A 
bird  flew  down  out  of  the  sky,  cocked  his  head  at  her, 
and  with  a  thirrre!  dipped  into  the  water,  drank,  shook 
himself  merrily  and  flew  away. 

215 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  Amy  Dorset  took  off  her 
hat  and  veil,  laid  beside  them  on  the  grass  her  gloves 
and  bag,  and  knelt  at  the  mossy  brim. 

It  was  very  still  on  the  little  rough  terrace ;  no  breeze 
stirred  the  grasses,  and  an  elm  growing  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  was  as  silent  as  if  it  were  listening. 

In  the  quiet  water  the  unhappy  woman  saw  her  face 
indistinctly — a  little  white  thing  it  looked. 

"I'm  kneeling  down,"  she  thought,  "as  if  I  were  going 
to  pray !" 

But  she  did  not  pray.  Prayer  was  not  one  of  her 
habits.  Instead,  after  looking  round,  half  shyly,  as  if 
she  feared  someone  might  be  watching,  she  bent  her  little 
head  until  her  face  touched  the  water.  And  then  she 
started,  flinging  herself  back  blindly,  for  the  water  was 
as  cold  as  ice ! 

After  a  moment,  however,  she  dipped  her  hands  in 
and  sluiced  her  hot  eyes  and  cheeks  royally.  The 
plunge  once  taken,  it  was  delicious. 

She  dried  her  face  and  hands  in  her  quite  insufficient 
handkerchief,  and  then  finally  on  her  weblike  petticoat. 

"There,  that's  better !" 

Somehow  the  touch  of  the  cold  water  seemed  to  her 
an  adventure ;  she  rose,  put  on  her  hat,  leaving  the  veil 
folded  back  over  the  wings  that  gave  her  cameo-likQ 
profile  a  look  of  Mercury,  and  stood  for  a  moment  gaz- 
ing at  the  water  which  had  befriended  her. 

216 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Thanks,  fountain,"  she  said,  smiling  indulgently  at 
the  poetry  of  her  own  conceit,  "you  have  helped  me.  I 
am  better." 

Then  she  went  on  in  the  late  afternoon  light  down 
the  hill. 


XXXVII 

AS  she  reached  the  level,  as  she  was  to  remember 
all  her  life,  the  church  clock  struck  five.    That 
meant,  she  knew,  that,  according  to  his  instruc- 
tions, Donald  would  have  finished  repairing  the  car,  and 
Clementine  would  be  in  search  of  her. 

She  stood  still.  The  evening  light  fell  full  on  her, 
and  an  exquisite  picture  she  made,  there  in  the  shade  of 
a  straggling  old  elm  who  had  outlived  his  usefulness 
and  was  merely  an  ornamental  derelict. 

Straight  before  her  the  sunset  was  going  on ;  a  splen- 
did pageant,  gorgeous  to  the  point  of  gaudiness,  yet, 
thanks  to  the  mysterious  beneficence  of  atmosphere,  as 
gentle  to  the  eye  as  a  dove-colored  dawn. 

Round  the  odd,  red-brick  building  that  the  disap- 
pearing parson  had  called  a  columbarium  whirled  birds 
that  looked  white  as  snow  against  the  glories  of  the 
west,  and  that  nevertheless,  even  Mrs.  Dorset  knew 
must  be  pigeons. 

Off  to  the  left  crept,  at  the  joining  of  the  sky  and  the 
downs,  a  dull-colored  something  that  must  be  a  homing 
flock  of  sheep. 

218 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Evening  was  coming  with  night  close  behind,  anil 
everything  from  the  sky  to  the  creatures  was  obeying 
her  quiet  call. 

The  water  of  the  fountain  seemed  in  some  way  to 
have  cooled  the  hot  misery  in  the  woman's  heart.  She 
herself  could  not  rest  as  yet,  but  she  could  already  see 
the  rest  that  was  coming  to  others. 

Evening  was  coming,  and  evening  to  the  primitive 
people  who  work  means  rest. 

People  were  going  home;  sheep  were  going  home; 
birds  were  going  home. 

"What  an  idiot  I  am !"  she  broke  off,  trying  to  laugh 
at  herself.  "Evening  is  when  one  dresses  for  dinner. 
It  means  more  powder  on  the  shoulders  in  summer  than 
in  winter,  that's  all  the  difference !  People — real  ones — 
are  not  going  home.  They  are  going  away  from  their 
homes,  to  eat  and  talk  and — dance " 

A  horrid  pang  of  pain  seemed  to  cleave  her  to  the 
midriff.  He,  Archie  Hood,  would  soon  be  dressing  to 
go — somewhere.  Where?  Wherever  it  was  there  would 
be  a  woman.  A  horrible,  loving,  giving  woman.  In- 
stinctively she  knew  that  in  his  misery  about  her,  he 
would  go  to  other  women  for  comfort  and  distraction. 
And  to  him,  to  this  man  whom  she  had  adored,  for 
whom  in  God's  own  truth,  she  would  have  died,  one 
woman,  provided  she  were  young  and  clean  and  fairly 
pretty,  would  be  as  good  as  she  herself. 

219 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

He  could  kiss,  could  love,  any  woman ! 

She  was  unjust  of  course ;  people  in  the  throes  of  any 
itrong,  primitive  emotion  always  are.  Hood,  less  good 
}han  she  had  thought  him,  was  certainly  less  vile  than 
Ahe  thought  him  now.  He  had  betrayed  her  because  he 
Was  inherently  unfaithful,  but  the  poor  fellow,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  was  at  that  very  moment  sitting  in  his 
flat  with  tight-clenched  hands,  as  miserable  as  she 
herself ! 

In  his  way  he  loved  her;  he  had  given  her  his  best 
and  possibly  it  was  not  his  fault  that  his  best  was  not 
better. 

The  sun  had  slid  down  the  sky,  and  rested  like  a 
child's  balloon  on  top  of  a  great  round  hill. 

Amy  Dorset  stood  and  watched  it.  Clementine  had 
not  come  to  fetch  her,  but  she  had  forgotten  Clemen- 
tine ;  her  feet  ached,  but  she  had  forgotten  her  feet ;  she 
had  washed  the  black  off  her  eyelashes  but  she  had  for- 
gotten her  eyelashes.  After  a  while  she  walked  on,  and 
presently  she  came  to  a  low  wall  to  the  right  of  the  road. 

The  other  side  of  the  low  wall,  two  old  ladies  were 
drinking  tea. 


XXXVIII 

WHEN  the  elder  of  the  two  old  ladies  looked  up 
from  the  tea-pot  she  held  over  her  sister's 
cup,  she  started,  and  inscribed  a  thin  brown 
serpent-like  sign  on  the  tablecloth  from  the  smoking 
spout. 

"Marietta,"  she  said  in  an  undertone  with  a  little 
hiss  due  to  some  defect  in  the  fit  of  her  upper  teeth. 

Miss  Marietta  turned  and  followed  her  sister's  gaze. 
"O  Arabella,"  she  cried  softly. 

Amy  Dorset,  of  course,  did  not  know,  never  was  to 
know,  just  what  a  picture  her  lovely  little  head  in  its 
Mercury  hat  made  over  the  wall.  She  was,  in  the  first 
place,  too  intent  on  herself  and  her  own  feelings  to 
realize  her  extreme  visibility  in  the  reddish  gold  of 
the  late  afternoon  light. 

Her  white  face,  a  little  snowy  triangle  lit  by  eyes 
that  just  caught  the  sun  and  blazed  back  at  it,  looked 
like  something  almost  unearthly  to  the  two  old  sisters. 
She  was  also  cherubic  in  that  to  them  she  was  a  bodiless 
head,  surrounded  and  backed  by  a  scrap  of  silvery 
gauze  that  might  easily  have  been  a  fragment  of  cloud. 

221 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

For  her  part  she  saw  a  charming  little  lawn  with  a 
ripe,  red  columbarium — whatever  that  might  be! — as 
background;  a  firm  thick-grown  herbaceous  border 
ablaze  with  strong  country  flowers  blooming,  all  red  and 
blue  and  yellow,  like  mad;  to  the  right,  the  French 
windows  flaunting  in  the  setting  sun  like  sheets  of 
flame;  to  the  left,  and  as  human  interest,  two  delight- 
fully beautiful  plain,  horribly  dressed  old  ladies  swarm- 
ing round  an  abundantly  set  forth  tea-table. 

She  also  smelt  several  things:  hot  buttered  toast, 
crimson  ramblers,  new-mown  hay,  steaming  tea,  lavender 
(a  great  sheath  of  it  lay  drying  on  the  lawn)  and 
piping  hot  gingerbread. 

("It's  the  lady  whose  car  broke  down,  Marietta,  it 
must  be!") 

"Oh,  how  good  the  tea  looks ;  I  wish  they'd  give  me 
some." 

("It  must  be,  Arabella.    And  isn't  she  pretty!") 

At  this  point,  Mrs.  Dorset,  feeling  like  an  outcast 
peri,  walked  slowly  on  towards  the  village. 

"Mary  insists,"  Miss  Saint  declared,  in  the  voice  of 
one  who  resumes  an  old  discussion,  "that  she  saw  Mr. 
Bullace  taking  her  up  to  the  Abbey." 

"I  don't  believe  it,  Arabella  dear.  If  he  had,  he'd 
have  taken  her  home  to  tea — wouldn't  he?" 

Miss  Saint  gave  an  odd  little  grunt  that  expressed 
at  once  amusement,  skepticism,  and  disapproval. 

222 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Can  one  ever  tell,"  she  asked,  plaintively,  "what 
Augustine  Bullace  would  do?  He  has  probably  gone 
home  and  forgotten  all  about  her." 

"The  poor  thing  looked  as  though  she'd  like  her  tea. 
And  the  toast  is  beautiful  today — " 

Miss  Saint  laughed  indulgently.  "Very  well,  my 
dear;  I  know  what  you  mean.  And  I'm  sure  7  don't 
mind, — only  look  sharp,  or — " 

It  was  thus  that  Mrs.  Dorset,  just  as  she  was  turn- 
ing off  to  the  left  to  go  to  the  village,  heard  a  light, 
scuttering  sound,  and  turning,  saw  Miss  Marietta 
Saint's  agitated,  kind  face  over  the  wall  and  was  in- 
vited in  to  tea. 


XXXIX 

AND  so,  you  see,  we  have  had  to  give  it  up,"  Miss 
Marietta  concluded  with  a  sigh,  as  Miss  Saint 
disappeared  into  the  house. 

"I  am  sorry,"  Amy  said  with  a  heart-felt  sympathy 
doubtless  due,  however  ungrateful  to  poetic  folk  the 
idea  may  be,  to  a  comfortable  internal  condition  con- 
tingent on  two  cups  of  tea  and  much  buttered  toast. 
Miss  Marietta,  who  looked  like  a  benevolent  and  gently 
bred  mouse,  nodded  sadly  and  dabbed  at  her  eye  with 
a  small  brown  paw. 

"I  shouldn't  so  much  mind,"  she  declared,  "for  people 
have  a  right  to  change  their  minds,  and  if  one  doesn't 
want  a  house,  well,  one  doesn't,  and  there's  an  end  of  it ! 
If  it  weren't  for  Arabella's  health " 

"Surely  she  isn't  ill?" 

It  was  after  six  and  the  ladies  now  sat  in  a  cool  lake 
of  shadow  cast  by  the  house. 

Miss  Marietta  shook  her  head. 

"It's  her  colon,"  she  said,  with  mystery. 

Amy,  too,  lowered  her  voice,  not  having  the  least  idea 
what  a  colon  might  be,  but  convinced  by  Miss  Marietta's 
voice  of  its  extreme  importance. 

224 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Dear  me !"  she  murmured. 

"Yes.  And  the  doctor  said  she  really  ought  to  have 
sea  air — a  change,  you  know !" 

"Suppose,"  Mrs.  Dorset  said  slowly,  "7  took  the 
house  for  two  months!" 


MRS.  ALFRED  BEAUCHAMP, 

Long  Powsley. 
So  sorry.     Impossible  to  come  after  all.    Writing. 

AMY. 


XLI 

EVERYONE    will   easily   understand    that   Amy 
Dorset  never  could  remember  exactly  why  she 
took  Dove  Cottage  for  two  months.    The  cool- 
ness of  the  little  garden  after  her  long  walk  in  the 
sun  had  to  do  with  her  decision;  so,  undoubtedly,  had 
the  feeling  of  comfort  contingent  on  her  kicking  off 
under  the  tea-table  her  high-heeled  shoes  and  stretching, 
as  the  French  say,  her  poor  "murdered"  toes. 

Hot  buttered  toast,  too,  is  a  comfort,  and  so  is  good, 
fresh-brewed  tea,  although  the  Misses  Saint  drank  the 
best  Indian,  and  Amy's  real  preference  was  for  that 
of  China.  But  after  all  the  chief  contribution  to  her 
amazing  decision  was  a  pair  of  silhouette  portraits  that 
hung,  one  on  either  side  of  old  Sir  James  Pinsent's 
portrait  in  the  drawing-room.  When  the  tea  was  drunk, 
and  the  remains  of  the  buttered  toast  congealed  into 
two  unattractive,  shamefaced  slabs  of  burnt  bread 
smeared  with  pale  grease,  Miss  Marietta  suggested  an 
adjournment  to  the  house. 

"You  might,"  she  said  to  her  guest,  "like  to  go  up- 
stairs." 

227 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Amy,  who  could  see  that  her  nose  was  shining  in  an 
unbecoming  way,  yet  who  dared  not,  in  the  presence  of 
the  two  old  gentlewomen,  produce  her  powder-puff,  was 
glad  to  assent. 

In  a  room  hung  with  very  clean,  very  faded  chintz, 
whereon  unnatural  parrots  sported  in  highly  imagina- 
tive tropical  foliage,  she  washed  her  face  and  hands, 
touched  up  her  lashes — the  latter  office  she  accomplished 
with  care,  lest  the  old  sisters  might,  observing,  be 
shocked — and  incarnadined  with  a  golden  pencil  her 
pretty  lips.  On  her  reappearance,  the  Misses  Saint 
exclaimed  as  one  woman,  "Oh,  you  do  look  rested!" 

For  this  Mrs.  Dorset  loved  them. 

Then  she  was  shown  the  house. 

It  was  a  small  house,  neither  old  enough  to  be  roman- 
tic, nor  new  enough  to  be  provided  with  all  the  modern 
comforts.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Alistair  Bowen  had  built 
it  in  1814,  and,  like  most  of  his  houses,  it  was  a  pathetic 
souvenir  of  an  interregnum. 

Bowen  had  not  enough  reverence  for  the  great  imme- 
diate past,  not  enough  appreciation  of  the  architectural 
giants  of  the  immediate  future,  to  build  really  good 
habitations,  but  he  was  enough  of  an  oddity  himself  to 
impress  a  certain  individuality  on  the  houses  he  de- 
signed. 

Dove  Cottage  was,  then,  a  substantial  little  house — 
for  it  was  not  a  cottage  in  spite  of  its  name — and  a 

228 


man  might,  in  one  room,  have  murdered  his  wife  without 
interruption  by  the  people  in  the  next.  It  had,  in  short, 
the  invaluable  quality  of  sound-proofness.  The  rooms, 
too,  were  fairly  high,  the  windows  fitted  close  and  opened 
easily,  and  the  doors  when  shut  let  in  no  air. 

Bowen  had,  of  course,  built  a  Venetian  balcony  outside 
the  chief  bedroom.  Without  a  Venetian  balcony  it 
would  not  have  been  a  Bowen  house.  And  the  balcony, 
of  delicately  sculptured  stone,  was  a  lovely  thing,  as 
well  as  a  place  of  luxurious  comfort. 

The  dull  mahogany  staircase  was  a  treasure;  it  was 
a  little  heavy,  perhaps,  in  proportion  to  the  size  of  the 
hall,  but  the  wood,  ripened  and  mellowed  by  a  hundred 
good  British  winters,  had  attained  a  sweetness  of  color, 
a  softness  of  outline — for  mahogany  is  more  susceptible 
than  oak — that  was  very  attractive  indeed. 

These  details  all  contributed,  of  course,  to  Mrs.  Dor- 
set's astonishing  decision  of  staying  for  two  months 
in  Bird's  Fountain,  but,  as  has  been  said,  it  was  the  sil- 
houettes hung  over  the  mantelpiece,  one  at  either  side 
of  good  old  Sir  James  Pinsent's  portrait,  that  really, 
as  she  herself  afterwards  quite  simply  expressed  it,  "did 
the  trick."  To  every  season  its  "slang." 

Mr.  William  Henry  Saint,  the  grandfather  of  the 
present  owners  of  Dove  Cottage  (and  to  whom,  indeed, 
belonged  the  further  distinction  of  having  engaged  the 
then  young  Alistair  to  design  the  house,  where,  in  the 

229 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

event  of  his  second  marriage,  Mr.  Saint  meant  his 
mother  and  his  late  wife's  mother  to  end  their  days) 
had  been  a  remarkably  handsome  man. 

The  miniature  likenesses  of  himself  and  his  wife,  "cut" 
rather  later  than  the  period  of  the  designing  of  the 
house,  represented  him  as  he  had  been  at  sixty-five. 
Amy  Dorset,  being  told  these  details,  stood  staring  at 
the  silhouettes,  counting  hard,  on  both  fingers  and  toes, 
groping  for  dates. 

"It  was  cut  in  1817,"  Miss  Marietta  explained.  "His 
first  wife  died  just  after  our  father  was  born  in  1815. 
He  was  a  very  handsome  man." 

"And — they  lived  here?" 

There  was  a  little  pause,  and  then  Miss  Saint  herself 
took  up  the  story.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "the  house  was 
built,  as  my  sister  has  told  you,  in  1814,  for  our  dear 
grandmother's  mother  and  mother-in-law.  But  in  June 
of  1815,  just  when  it  was  finished  and  ready  for  habita- 
tion, our  grandfather  brought  his  second  wife  to  see 
it,  and — she  liked  it.  So  they  came  here  to  live  them- 
selves. I  believe,"  she  added  thoughtfully,  "that  they 
were  very  happy." 

"She  must  have  been  very  pretty,"  Mrs.  Dorset  said, 
not  mentioning  the  resemblance  to  herself,  in  the  not 
seeing  of  which  her  companions  seemed  to  her  to  prove 
themselves  unobservant  almost  to  the  point  of  blind- 
ness. 

230 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"She  was,"  Miss  Saint  answered  dreamily.  "She  was 
not  well  born  I  fear — but — he  loved  her,  dear  grand- 
father— they  were  a  model  couple." 

Amy  suddenly  remembered  a  description,  given  her 
recently  by  a  friend,  of  a  modern  peer  and  his  lady: 
"A  model  couple,  you  know,  dear :  he  goes  his  way,  and 
she  hers,  and  they  never  ask  each  other  questions!" 

Miss  Marietta,  who  had  taken  down  the  black-and- 
gilt  frame  within  which  dwelt  her  grandmother's  profile, 
blew  on  the  glass  protecting  it,  and  rubbing  it  with  her 
handkerchief,  said  meditatively,  "I  believe  she  was  no- 
body at  all,  our  dear  grandmother.  (I  can  just  remem- 
ber her!)  She  was  a  surgeon's  daughter,  from  some- 
where in  Northamptonshire.  Her  name  was  Hubbard." 

Mrs.  Dorset  started.  Her  own  mother  had  been  a 
Miss  Hubbard.  After  a  while  the  three  ladies  went 
again  out  on  to  the  lawn  and  sat  down,  and  it  was  then, 
after  a  few  moments'  conversation,  that  Dove  Cottage 
changed  hands  for  the  months  of  August  and  Septem- 
ber. 


XLII 

POOR  Mr.  Bullace,  as  he  stood  on  the  mat  waiting 
for  the  answer  to  his  knock,  was  the  picture  of 
woe. 

He  had  heard,  while  at  breakfast,  of  the  immediate 
departure  for  the  sea  of  his  two  old  friends,  and  that 
the-lady-whose-car-broke-down-yesterday  had  taken  the 
cottage. 

And  then  he  had  remembered  that  he  had  invited 
the  lady  to  tea,  taken  her  up  to  the  ruins,  and  then — 
forgotten  all  about  her  and  gone  home  and  eaten  all  the 
tea-cakes  himself  as  he  read  "Tristram  Shandy."  His 
soul,  as  he  waited  under  the  portico,  was  full  of  shame 
and  misery. 

"Will  you  ever  forgive  me  ?"  he  burst  out,  as  a  strange 
woman  opened  the  door  to  him. 

"These  ladies,"  said  the  strange  woman,  "beg  Mon- 
sieur to  enter." 

Then  the  Rector  remembered  that  the  lady  he  had 
deserted  on  the  stone  bench  had  not  had  a  guttural 
voice,  a  foreign  accent,  and  a  mustache. 

Quite  timidly,  as  though  he  had  never  been  there 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

before,  the  old  man  laid  his  stick  on  the  Flemish  chest 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  went  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

"Me,"  said  the  mustachioed  one,  "I  go  to  tell  these 
ladies." 

Mr.  Bullace  stood  still,  looking  round  him.  The 
shabby,  pretty  room  seemed  much  as  usual,  although  it 
was  for  the  first  time  that  he  saw  a  long,  yellowish 
glove  lying  on  the  sofa. 

There  was  also  a  large,  heavily  built,  gold-topped 
crystal  smelling-bottle  on  the  table  near  the  Wedgwood 
rose- jar. 

"Dear  me,  dear  me,"  the  old  parson  said  aloud  in 
the  voice  of  helplessness. 

But  when  Miss  Saint  came  in  and  explained,  his  ejac- 
ulations ceased.  She  had  color  in  her  faded  cheeks, 
and  her  cap  was  not  so  exactly  in  the  middle  of  her 
head  as  was  usual. 

"She  is  delightful — delightful,  Augustine,"  she  said, 
in  a  voice  not  so  reedy  as  it  was  when  uninspired  by 
adventure.  "She  is  also  quite  beautiful.  We,  dear 
Marietta  and  I,  are  sorry  to  leave  her.  But  for  my 
health " 

The  old  man  rubbed  his  hands  with  a  dry  little 
sound  like  that  made  by  crickets.  "She  charms  you, 
then?  I  thought  she  would,  Arabella.  She  charmed 


me: 


i" 


233 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Miss  Saint  laughed.  "To  the  extent  of  your  leaving 
her  in  the  ruins  and  going  home.  O  Augustine !" 

The  Rector  was  crestfallen,  chapfallen,  his  brown 
eyes  full  of  embarrassment. 

"My  dear  Arabella,"  he  said,  "I  am  dreadfully 
ashamed,  but  indeed  I  went  home  and  told  Julia  that 
a  lady  was  coming  for  tea.  I  ordered  cakes  and  buns 
and  the  heather  honey." 

His  eyes  met  hers  so  humbly  that  she  melted. 

"And  then,"  she  said,  "you  waited?  Waited  and 
waited,  and  nobody  came  to  tea?" 

"Yes,  Arabella." 

"And — did  you  finally  remember  all  about  it?" 

He  hung  his  head.  "No.  To  be  truthful,  as  time 
passed  I  forgot.  I — I  was  reading  'Tristram  Shandy.' 
I  forgot." 

"And  when  did  you  remember,  Augustine?" 

Miss  Saint  looked  very  severe,  her  hands  folded  over 
what,  to  conform  to  both  exactitude  and  delicacy,  we 
will  call  her  person. 

"I  remembered  this  morning,  when  Mrs.  Crump  told 
me  that  you  had  let  the  cottage.  And  so,"  he  added 
more  briskly,  "you  really  are  going  to  Eastbourne?" 

"Yes,  we  shall  go  to  Mrs.  Bussell  this  time,  for  guess," 
the  old  lady  exclaimed  in  triumph,  "what  she  is  paying 
us  for  the  two  months?" 


XLIII 

Dorset,  875  Park  Lane,  London. 

Plans  changed.    Please  hold  letters. 

AMY. 


XLIV 

AT  four  o'clock  of  the  morning  after  the  departure 
of  the  Misses  Saint,  Mrs.  Dorset  awoke,  trem- 
bling and  weeping.  She  had  had  a  frightful 
dream. 

And  as  she  lay  in  her  bed  the  true  tragedy  of  her 
life  came  into  her  mind,  excluding  the  unreal  one  of  her 
dream. 

It  seems  in  some  way  unfair  that  to  this  light-souled, 
trivial-minded  little  chatterer  should  have  been  allotted 
the  most  terrible  grief  possible  to  a  woman:  the  grief 
of  loving  a  man  whom  she  knew  to  be  unworthy  and 
bad. 

Men  are  in  the  scheme  of  wisdom  so  differently 
planned  that  many  a  man  has  loved  a  bad  woman  and 
yet  gone  through  life  fairly  profitably  and  not  without 
some  happiness,  but  women  rarely  love  men  they  know 
to  be  bad — which  is  a  very  different  thing  from  loving 
a  bad  man! — and  when  one  does,  she  is  in  the  gravest 
danger  of  complete  moral  and  mental  shipwreck. 

Two  days  before  Amy  Dorset  had  waked  at  dawn  in 
her  pretty  room  in  town,  her  heart  filled  with  a  passion 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

of  gratitude  to  the  Heavens  above,  the  earth  below,  and 
the  water  under  the  earth.  Archie  Hood  loved  her,  she 
loved  him,  and  her  happiness  was  like  a  rising  tide  that 
almost  threatened  to  drown  her. 

Her  small  cup,  to  use  her  husband's  metaphor,  was 
not  of  crystal,  not  even  of  gold,  but  it  was  not  of  base 
metal,  and  it  was  full  to  the  brim. 

Her  husband  knew  and  "he  did  not  care,"  and  he 
would,  she  was  sure,  do  everything  necessary  for  her 
eventual  perfect  happiness. 

She  had  risen,  in  her  maid-like  restlessness,  and  pulled 
up  the  blinds,  letting  in  the  early  light. 

She  stood  there  amazed  at  herself,  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  She  did  not  quote  Shakespeare  for  she  had 
never  read  him,  but  her  heart  expressed  in  her  mood 
that  was  a  prayer  "as  I  truly  fight,  defend  me,  Heaven." 
She  would  be  good,  so  good,  always. 

Everything  was  so  good  to  her  that  she  must  be  good 
to  everything. 

And  then,  that  same  day,  before  the  sun,  whose  com- 
ing she  had  watched,  had  left  the  sky,  she  had  been  over- 
taken by  nimble,  light-footed  mischance. 

At  first  her  anger  at  the  man's  miserable  evil  had 
been  but  enough  to  stimulate  and  strengthen  her,  as 
fever  may ;  in  an  odd  way  she  had  even  enjoyed  the  scene 
at  Yvonne  Cavendish's.  It  had  been  horrible,  and  yet 
his  suffering  and  shame,  even  though  it  was  only  the 

237 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

useless  shame  of  the  found-out,  had  been  a  certain  balm 
to  her  wound. 

Then  came  her  fainting-fit,  her  talk  with  Pasquier 
le  Breton,  her  torrent  of  tears,  and  a  night  of  exhausted, 
heavy  sleep. 

The  next  day  she  had  decided  what  to  do,  and  been 
busy  with  her  preparations. 

She  would  go  to  Molly  Beauchamp's  and  amuse  her- 
self. There  would  be  much  noise,  horse-play,  artificial 
mirth,  roulette  and  the  kind  of  forgetfulness  secured 
by  these  things.  Also,  she  would  summon  to  her  a  man 
who  cherished  for  her  an  uncomplimentary  sentiment 
that  he  tried  to  disguise  under  a  name  that  means  some- 
thing absolutely  different. 

Acton  Goodwin  was  one  of  the  most  amusing  men  in 
England.  His  mother  had  been  Irish.  His  reputation 
about  women  was  very  bad,  but — and  in  her  crushing 
misery  Mrs.  Dorset  recalled  this  point  with  a  kind  of 
greed — his  redeeming  quality  was  truthfulness. 

He  was  no  coward  and  therefore,  of  course,  he  could 
always  be  believed. 

There  was  about  this  gentleman  an  excellent  tale. 

An  infuriated  husband,  it  ran,  met  Goodwin  one  day 
on  the  steps  of  one  of  the  Service  clubs. 

"You  damned  scoundrel,"  the  husband  cried,  "I  have 
been  looking  for  you.  You  have "  And  then  fol- 
lowed a  categorical  accusation. 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"It's  perfectly  true,"  the  culprit  replied,  "and  she 
doesn't  love  me  and  I  don't  love  her  and  I  won't  marry 
her!" 

The  nonplussed  husband,  who,  indeed,  was  not  thirsty 
for  publicity,  forgave  his  wife,  and  all  went  well. 

And  this  man  was  the  one  chosen  by  Mrs.  Dorset  to 
amuse  and  distract  her  at  Long  Powsley. 

Realizing  her  own  condition  of  utter  recklessness,  she 
compared  it  despite  its  frightful  sincerity  to  that  of 
other  women  of  whom  she  had  heard,  to  that  of  La  Val- 
liere,  of  Mrs.  Rex  Pountry  (she  who  finally  married  a 
jockey  after  having  been  loved  by  very  great  gentlemen 
indeed),  of  Dido,  of  Cleopatra,  and  of  poor,  lovely 
Enid  Squire,  the  dancer  who  shot  herself  the  day  of  Otto 
Ross's  wedding.  They  had  despaired  (she  was  not 
quite  sure  about  Cleopatra),  and  she  despaired.  She 
would,  she  decided,  for  she  was  furiously  angry  as  well 
as  broken-hearted,  perform  the  deed  known  in  cases  of 
men  as  going  to  the  dogs. 

This  resolution  had  occupied  her  mind  during  the 
three  hours'  motor  run,  and  but  for  the  mishap  she 
would  at  that  moment  have  been,  so  to  speak,  at,  if  not 
in,  the  kennel. 

Poor  Amy!  The  room  in  which  she  had  now  awak- 
ened was  not  adapted  to  late  sleepers ;  its  two  windows 
were  unshaded  but  for  their  cream-colored  blinds ;  the 
curtains,  which  were  of  faded  chintz  on  which  little 

239 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

blue  and  yellow  Chinese  folk  walked  up  steep  hills  to 
pagodas  by  the  sea,  being  not  only  undrawn  but  un- 
drawable. 

She  awoke  not  only  to  the  misery  of  remembering 
Archie  Hood,  but  to  that  exasperating,  immediate  mis- 
ery, a  glaringly  light  room. 

"Oh,  this  beastly  pig  of  a  house ;  why  did  I  ever  come 
here !"  she  wailed,  her  nose  in  the  pillow.  "I'll  go  on  to 
Molly's  this  very  day."  And  then,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments, "Oh,  Archie,  if  I  could  only  see  you.  I  don't 
care  what  you  did.  Oh,  my  dear,  my  sweet,  my  beautiful 
love!" 

She  cried  until  her  eyes  look  like  inflamed  goose- 
berries, could  such  a  horticultural  horror  exist.  To 
her  it  meant  that  at  any  price  she  would  have  the  man 
back,  but  in  reality  it  was  only  another  turn  of  the 
wheel  which,  in  its  relentless  revolutions,  was  her  life. 

She  thought  of  nothing  but  herself,  for  Hood  was 
part  of  herself;  she  wept  for  herself;  she  was  her 
despair,  and  her  despair  was  Amy  Dorset. 

And  meantime,  outside,  the  lovely  downs  were  waking 
at  the  call  of  day.  There  were  birds  in  the  garden, 
sheep  in  the  folds,  dogs  in  the  door  places  and  cattle 
in  the  byres.  And  as  day  came  all  these  creatures  wel- 
^omed  it  with  words  in  their  several  tongues,  and  the 
result  was  a  beautiful,  harmonious,  friendly  babel. 

Mrs.  Dorset  plugged  her  ears  against  this  music  tith 
240 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

exasperated,  pointed  fingers.  She  longed  for  black 
night,  and  resented  as  a  personal  infliction  the  growth 
of  the  morning.  She  hated  everyone  and  everything. 
Archie  Hood,  whom  she  adored,  was  a  bad  man  and  a 
traitor. 


XLV 

WHEN  Clementine  came  in  at  nine  with  her 
lady's  breakfast  on  a  tray,  she  found  Mrs. 
Dorset  sitting  up  in  bed,  reading.  She  had 
a  lace  cap  on,  and  her  wan  and  pointed  face  was  thickly 
powdered.  There  was  also,  the  maid  noticed  with  a  pang 
of  pity,  water  in  the  hand  basin  and  a  crumpled  towel 
beside  it. 

"Elle  s'est  lavee  la  pauvre  figure,"  the  grim-faced 
woman  thought,  with  a  fierce  pang  of  rage  towards,  as 
the  language  of  inquests  hath  it,  some  person  or  per- 
sons unknown. 

"Bon  jour,  madame,"  she  said,  blithely.  "Madame 
has  slept  well?" 

"No,  Clementine.  J'ai  tray  mal  dormy.  I  have  taken 
a  bad  cold  and  my  eyes  are  inflamed  and  they  ache 
rather." 

Clementine  disposed  of  the  tray  to  her  liking  and 
brought  a  third  pillow  from  the  sofa.  "What  a  misfor- 
tune!" she  exclaimed.  "I  will  prepare  one  of  the 
sachets  de  fraicheur  for  the  eyes  of  madame.  Madame 
heard  the  dog  who  barked,  the  canaille?" 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Amy  nodded.  "Yes.  Un  chien  tray  movay.  Is  that 
tea?" 

"Oui,  madame.  It  is  prepared  by  the  good  Mrs. 
Damson.  There  are  buttered  eggs,  and — jam!  I  ex- 
plain madame,  that  madame  eats  not  of  the  jam,  but  she 
say  to  me,  *  'Ome-grown  and  'ome-made,  it  will  do  'er 
good!'  Eh  bien,  madame,  nous  aliens  voir,  n'est  ce 
pas  ?" 

She  was  doing  her  best  to  cheer  her  mistress  and 
Amy  saw  it.  "Thank  you,  Clementine,"  she  said  sud- 
denly in  a  thin,  high  voice,  her  eyebrows  raised. 

Then  she  burst  into  tears. 

Clementine,  as  has  been  said,  was,  thanks  to  the 
matchless  discretion  of  Immenham,  completely  in  the 
dark  regarding  the  nature  of  her  mistress's  affliction. 
And  Mrs.  Dorset's  way  of  life  had  always  been  a 
puzzle  to  the  Frenchwoman.  She  had  lived  with  many 
French  ladies  and  with,  several  English  ones,  and  her 
experience  was,  as  she  crudely  expressed  it,  ou  un  mari, 
ou  un  amant. 

Cloudesley  Dorset  she  did  not  consider  a  husband; 
it  was  quite  clear  to  her  that  he  and  madame  did  not 
love  each  other.  It  was  clear  that  the  lovely  lady  was 
wholly  occupied  with  the  life  of  society  and  with  her 
little  person.  She  had  no  mastering  taste,  such  as  music 
had  been  for  Madame  la  Marquise,  or  the  breeding  of 
bulldogs  for  Madame  Coventry -Green ;  children  there 

243 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

were  not;  where,  then,  was  the  lover?  Clementine  be- 
lieved this  so  usual  person  to  be  wholly  absent  in  the 
Dorset  menage. 

And,  to  her  circumscribed  though  acute  mind,  these 
many  lacks  created  an  unheard  of  condition  of  things. 
Madame  was  beautiful,  rich,  of  tne  great  world ;  she  was 
with  husband  on  terms  that  utterly  precluded  a  domes- 
tic tragedy;  even,  the  maid  thought,  had  M.  Dorsette 
had  a  begum  for  some  lady  who  was  not  a  lady,  it  would 
leave  madame  perfectly  cold.  Therefore,  as  she  ob- 
viously had  no  lover,  for  there  were  no  hours  at  which 
only  one  gentleman  was  to  be  admitted,  no  sorties  de 
cinq  a  sept,  none  of  the  indices  of  visits  to  a  bachelor 
quarter,  what  could,  the  faithful  creature  asked  herself, 
be  the  matter? 

When  Mrs.  Dorset  burst  into  tears  Clementine  said 
nothing.  She  removed  the  tray  from  the  lap  of  the  suf- 
ferer and  laid  a  clean  handkerchief  and  a  bottle  of 
smelling-salts  on  the  table  near  the  bed. 

Then  she  withdrew,  thus  achieving  great  merit. 

When  she  came  back,  summoned  by  the  bell,  she  found 
her  mistress  seated  at  the  dressing-table,  washing  her 
face  with  a  huge  pad  of  cotton  wool  dripping  with 
Madame  de  1'Enclos'  Eau  de  Printemps. 

"You  never  came  to  tea !" 

The  large  old  man  shook  his  finger  at  her  in  reproach. 
244 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"But — you  went  and  left  me  without  a  word.  You 
deserted !" 

She  had  devoted  two  hours  to  her  toilette  and  now, 
in  a  pink  linen  coat  and  skirt,  her  shoes  and  stockings 
silver-gray,  her  shady  hat  over  her  eyes  and  vernal 
with  flat  leaves,  she  was  as  lovely  as  a  delicately  done 
pastel. 

The  old  man's  eyes  beamed  at  her  over  his  nose, 
which  was  in  his  broad  face  what  a  flying  buttress  is 
between  two  bright  windows. 

"I  am,"  he  said,  "an  absent-minded  old  idiot.  I  de- 
serve the  rack  or  the  wheel,  but  if  I  had  not  gone 
away  and  forgotten  you,  as  I  confess  I  did,  you  would 
have  drunk  your  tea  in  my  garden  and  gone  your  way, 
instead  of  being  here !  So  my  idiocy  was  a  blessing  in 
disguise." 

It  was  exactly  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  sun  rode  in  a 
burning  blue  sky.  Under  the  mulberry  tree  there  was 
a  delightful  patch  of  shade,  and  in  the  shade,  in  two 
shabby  deckchairs,  Mr.  Bullace  and  Mrs.  Dorset  had 
sat  down. 

The  sounds  of  a  passing  flock  of  sheep  filled  the  im- 
mediate air;  little  feet  pattering  down  the  hard  road, 
silly  bleating  voices  babbling,  no  doubt,  of  the  dust, 
the  distance,  the  hoped-for  cropping  of  lunch. 

Amy,  tired  from  her  crying  and  the  subsequent 
reparations  necessitated  by  it,  sat  lazily  in  her  chair, 

245 


her  absurd  gray  feet  in  their  stilt-like  heels  crossed, 
her  eyes  half-closed. 

"It's  an  awful  pity  she  paints  her  pretty  face,"  the 
old  man  observed  suddenly. 

She  started,  but  before  she  could  speak  he  went  on 
in  a  changed  voice,  "I  want  you  to  come  and  dine  with 
me  today,  this  evening,  if  you  will." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  she  realized  that  his 
first  remark  had  been  quite  unconscious,  and  that  she 
need  only  answer  the  second. 

"I — I  should  love  to  come,"  she  said,  rather  inarticu- 
late in  her  amazement  on  this  rustic  old  priest  having 
perceived  her  make-up,  "only — I  fear  I  must  get  on  to 
Long  Powsley  this  afternoon." 

"But— the  house?" 

She  laughed.  "I  know.  I — it's  all  right,  of  course, 
about  the  house — I  mean  to  say,  it  is  mine  for  the  two 
months.  Only — I  must  go  to  Mrs.  Beauchamp " 

The  old  man  looked  as  openly  disappointed  as  a  child. 
"And  I  had  hoped,"  he  plained,  his  lips  protruding  with 
distress,  "for  such  delightful  hours  with  you."  After  a 
moment  he  added,  "And  poor  Jargonelle  will  be  so 
unhappy !" 

"It  is  very  sweet  of  you,"  she  returned,  flattered  and 
pleased  as  she  always  was  by  such  tributes,  "to  be 
sorry.  And  who  is  Jargonelle?" 

"She  is  my  only  daughter's  daughter.  She  lives  with 
246 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

me — naturally."  His  brown  eyes  had  taken  on  the  odd 
silvered  look,  habitual  to  him,  Amy  was  beginning  to  see, 
in  his  absent  moments. 

"Why — naturally?"  she  asked  kindly,  as  she  would 
have  spoken  to  a  cobra  if  it  had  shown  signs  of  liking 
her. 

The  old  man  blew  his  nose.  "Where  else  could  she 
live,"  he  said,  "with  her  parents  both  dead?" 

"Oh,  I  see." 

After  a  moment's  silence,  the  quiet  was  disturbed  by 
the  loud  slam  of  the  lower  garden  gate,  and  over  the 
grass  there  came  flying  a  young  being  in  pink ;  a  young 
being  between  kitten  and  cat,  between  child  and  woman; 
a  tall,  thin,  leggy,  angular,  awkward,  graceful  girl  of 
sixteen  or  seventeen. 

"Grandfather,  grandfather,"  she  gasped,  in  her  stren- 
uous advance,  waving  her  arms  like  a  windmill,  "you've 
forgotten  the  wedding!" 

The  Rector  rose,  squeezing  his  mouth  into  a  bunch 
with  his  left  hand,  as  if  it  had  committed  the  crime  and 
was  ashamed  of  it. 

"They're  all  at  the  church!  They've  been  waiting 
half  an  hour,  and  the  bride  thinks  she  ought  to  faint." 

The  old  man  stared  at  her,  the  picture  of  guilt,  and 
then,  in  their  excitement,  they  both  utterly  forgot  their 
hostess,  and,  grasping  each  other's  hands,  they  went 
tearing  down  the  slope  towards  the  church.  A  few  mo- 

247 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

merits  after  they  had  disappeared  Mrs.  Dorset  saw  the 
girl  flying  back. 

"Grandfather's  in  the  vestry — Jacob  has  got  him  and 
it's  all  right,  and — "  she  held  out  her  hand  in  an  un- 
abashed, friendly  invitation  to  another  race — ' 
must  come  to  the  wedding." 


XL  VI 

THE  church,  which,  in  the  great  thickness  of  its 
walls  and  the  smallness  of  its  interior,  seemed 
rather  to  have  been  hollowed  out  of  a  solid  block 
of   stone  than  built  round   a   space,  was   nearly   full. 
Amy  was  escorted  down  the  aisle  and  ensconced  in  the 
Rectory  pew  by  her  companion,  who,   on  their   rush 
through  the  churchyard,  had  put  on  her  hat,  which  she 
had  left  on  a  flat  tombstone,  and  who,  on  reaching  her 
seat,  plumped  so  suddenly  to  her  knees  that  their  impact 
with  the  stone  floor  was  plainly  audible. 

One  of  Mrs.  Dorset's  secrets  was  that  in  her  child- 
hood, since  which  period  she  had  not  been  anything, 
she  had  been  a  Dissenter.  Her  father  had  been  a 
deacon  in  a  large  parish  chapel  in  a  Northamptonshire 
town,  and  to  this  abode  of  prayer  the  child  had  been 
taken  regularly  until  she  was  fifteen  and  had  been  sent 
to  a  boarding-school. 

During  the  three  years  of  her  second-rate  education 
she  had,  partly  through  indifference,  partly  through 
snobbishness,  participated  in  the  worship  of  St.  James's 
on  the  Front,  and  since  her  marriage  at  the  age  of  nine- 

249 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

teen  she  had  given  up  both  chapel  and  church,  not  be- 
cause of  any  conviction,  but  out  of  the  old  indifference, 
a  new  and  agreeable  feeling  that  Sunday  was  an  excel- 
lent day  for  late  rising,  and  a  conviction  based  on  her 
circumscribed  and  superficial  observation  that  only  the 
aged  and  the  frumpish  went  to  church. 

However,  even  in  London  people  went  to  weddings, 
so  it  was  the  marriage  service  with  which  she  was  the 
most  familiar  of  all. 

When  she  rose  from  her  knees,  Amy  Dorset  opened 
the  book  handed  to  her  by  Jargonelle,  and,  not  without 
pride,  turned  to  page  161. 

Then,  while  the  organ  boomed  out  a  very  reminiscent 
voluntary,  she  surveyed  the  people  round  her. 

The  women,  she  noticed,  were  remarkably  broad  be- 
tween the  waist  and  the  knees,  and  their  elaborate  and 
vivid  hats  were,  as  the  slang  phrase  of  that  season  went, 
absolutely  too  good  to  be  true. 

The  men,  as  always  holds  good  in  country  gatherings, 
were,  while  less  good-looking  than  at  least  the  younger 
of  the  women,  more  dignified-looking  and  less  gro- 
tesque. A  man's  hat  cannot  be  so  ridiculous  as  a 
woman's. 

Suddenly,  after  a  prolonged  study  of  a  Ricketts'  blue 
straw,  trimmed  with  yards  of  cotton  lace  and  a  bunch  of 
maize-colored  roses,  Amy  became  aware  that  the  Rector 
stood  at  the  altar  steps. 

250 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

She  stared  at  him.  What  had  happened,  she  thought 
in  amazement,  why  did  he  look  so  different?  She  was 
too  ignorant,  too  unimaginative,  to  know  that  whereas 
she  had  hitherto  seen  only  the  man,  she  now  saw  the 
priest. 

The  organ  burst  into  the  wedding  march,  and  the 
bride,  a  big,  healthy  girl  with  a  brick-colored  neck  and 
hands  like  hams  in  white  gloves,  came  pounding  up  the 
aisle  with  her  father,  and  the  bridegroom,  whose  sheep- 
ish demeanor  really  was  very  funny,  stood  waiting  for 
her. 

Mrs.  Dorset,  whose  was  the  elementary  sense  of  hu- 
mor that  consists  largely  of  the  trick  of  seeing  as  ab- 
surdities afflictions  that  look  piteous  to  wiser  people,  bit 
her  lip.  The  bridegroom's  scarlet  face  and  nervously 
working  hands  were  ridiculous  to  her. 

" — Which  holy  estate  Christ  adorned  and  beautified 
with  his  presence — "  The  Rector's  voice  was  very 
firm  as  he  went  on,  and  the  little  church  was  hushed 
and  still. 

" — Or  else  hereafter  forever  hold  his  peace." 

Amy's  eyes  swam  with  sudden,  bitter  tears.  Word 
for  word  this  was  the  service,  the  reading  of  which,  for 
her  and  Archie  Hood,  forty-eight  hours  before,  had 
been  the  wish  of  her  heart.  And  now 

To  force  back  the  tears  she  shut  her  eyes  tight,  and 
in  the  darkness  the  old,  beautiful  voice  went  on.  Sup- 

251 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

pose  it  had  been  for  her  and  Archie.  Suppose  it  was 
all  a  dream,  that  about  those  dreadful  letters,  and  her 
visit  to  that  poor  girl — suppose  Archie  was  a  good  man, 
the  man  for  her  not  only  to  love,  but  of  whom  she  might 
or  ought  to  be  proud. 

"Wilt  thou  love  her,  comfort  her,  honor,  and  keep 
her,  in  sickness  and  in  health" — if  it  were  she  standing 
there  in  the  yellow  frock  and,  by  her  side,  Archie — 
how  beautiful  he  would  look,  his  firm  face  white  with 
emotion  and  love ! — "and,  forsaking  all  others,  keep  thee 
only  unto  her,  so  long  as  ye  both  shall  live?" 

It  was  as  if  someone  had  rudely  and  vilely  laughed  at 
something  sacred  to  her,  the  realization  of  the  absurdity 
of  what  these  words  would  have  meant  to  a  man  like 
Archie  Hood. 

It  was  ridiculous,  scurrilously  funny,  the  idea  of  his 
untruthful  lips  uttering  them.  She  could  see  him,  hear 
him  say  them,  blandly,  reverently,  with  dignity. 

A  wave  of  fury  swept  over  her ;  she  would  have  liked 
to  strike  the  man  who  so  injured  her  by  being  what  he 
was.  She  would  have  loved  to  tear  his  face,  to  hurt, 
to  insult  him. 

The  strength  of  her  passion  of  anger  seemed  to  be 
destroying  her,  and  then  the  misery  that  was  so  much 
worse  than  the  anger,  reduced  her  to  trembling  weak- 
ness. 

"Are  you  faint?" 

252 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

The  girl's  voice  seemed  miles  away.  Amy  could  not 
answer ;  she  leaned  back  in  her  corner. 

"Shall  I  run  and  fetch  salts  or  something?" 

The  young  girl  grew  nearer,  her  pretty  dark  eyes 
full  of  anxiety,  her  warm  hand  on  Amy's. 

"No,  no— thanks,  I'll  be  all  right " 

" — And  in  all  quietness,  sobriety,  and  peace;  be  a 
follower  of  holy  and  godly  matrons " 

The  bride  and  groom,  now  safely  married,  were  look- 
ing at  each  other,  and,  unconscious  of  observation,  their 
homely,  sunburnt  faces  were  beautiful. 

Amy  Dorset  watched  them,  an  odd  idea  dawning  in 
her  mind.  "Why — they  love  each  other,"  she  thought, 
in  innocent  because  involuntary  amazement,  "the  poor 
things  love  each  other !" 


XL  VII 

The  Blue  Cottage, 
Wakelands,  Wilts,  Aug.  4- 
DEAR  M.  PASQUIER  LE  BRETON, 

It  is  all  right!  I  have  just  learned  all  about  her,  and 
I  hasten  to  keep  my  promise  and  let  you  know. 

It  suddenly  occurred  to  me  yesterday  that  Mrs.  Patterson, 
the  chauffeur's  wife,  would  be  bound  to  know  where  they 
were,  as  her  baby  was  expected  at  any  time. 

And  when  I  got  there  I  found  not  only  the  baby  but 
Donald  himself!  He  had  been  forbidden  to  tell  anyone, 
but  of  course  the  poor  man  had  sent  his  wife  the  address, 
and  as  she  was  pretty  bad  last  night,  her  mother  wired  for 
him ! 

Oh,  I  was  so  glad  to  see  him. 

He  wasn't  at  all  glad  to  see  me  though — all  the  servants, 
you  know,  are  devoted  to  Amy ! — and  I  had  an  awful  time 
persuading  him  to  tell  me  about  her.  It  seems  she  made 
him  promise  not  to.  He  had  told  Cloudesley  that  she  was 
well  and  that  he  could  say  no  more,  and  Cloudesley  asked 
nothing  further.  I,  however,  did,  and  finally,  on  my  swear- 
ing I  would  not  go,  or  even  write  to  her,  he  told  me  the 
whole  thing,  and  bad  as  it  is  it  is  a  great  deal  better  than 
the  poor  litle  darling's  being  with  the  Beauchamp  lot.  .  .  . 

So  when  the  car  finally  was  all  right  and  he  had  found 
her,  she  coolly  told  him  she  had  taken  the  house  for  two 
months. 

254 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

He  said  she  looked  all  right  that  evening,  and  that  the 
old  ladies  were  charming.  He  says  the  clergyman  is  mad. 
Really  mad,  you  know,  but  of  course  he  isn't,  or  they'd  take 
his  cure  away  from  him ! 

The  day  after  they  got  there  he,  Donald,  motored  the 
two  old  ladies  down  to  Eastbourne.  The  next  day  there 
was  a  rustic  wedding,  and  he  took  the  bride  and  groom  to 
Brighton. 

And  yesterday  he  came  to  see  his  wife. 

While  I  was  there — at  the  chauffeur's  house — a  wire  came 
for  him  from  Amy.  She  said  that  he  need  not  come  back 
to  her,  and  that  if  he  kept  his  word  and  told  nobody  any- 
thing about  her,  she  would  give  him  fifty  pounds  when  she 
returned!  .  .  . 

So  that  is  all,  but  thank  God  she  is  safe  and  not  with 
those  horrid  people. 

I  dined  with  Cloudesley  last  night.  He  had  just  had  a 
note  from  her,  saying  just  that  she  was  well  and  resting 
and  would  write  again  soon.  An  odd,  stiff  little  letter  it 
was,  so  unlike  her.  I  should  like  to  see  that  man  torn  to 
bits  by  wild  horses.  You'll  be  glad,  I  know,  to  hear  that 
he  looks  ill  and  seems  to  be  suffering  as  I  had  no  idea  such 
things  could  suffer. 

I  met  him  this  morning  in  the  Park,  on  my  way  to  lunch. 

He:     "Oh,  Miss  Croxley " 

/:  "Good  morning."  And  I  only  hope  I  looked  as  con- 
temptuous as  I  felt. 

He:  "Miss  Croxley,  please  excuse  me,  but  for  Heav- 
en's sake,  where  is  she?" 

/:     "Where  is  who?" 

He  was  very  pale  and  very  handsome,  the  brute!  You 
know,  more  Spanish  than  ever,  and  Oh,  so  dignified ! 

He:     "Mrs.  Dorset.     Tell  me  at  least  that  she  is  well." 

7:     Alas  for  dignity  or  even  common  decency!     "I  can 

255 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

tell  you  nothing,  but  does  that  matter  ?    Go  and  be  consoled 
by  your  Yvonne,  and  your  Alys — and  the  others." 

I  am  bitterly  ashamed  of  having  been  such  a  vulgar  cad, 
but — I  said  it.  And  he,  of  course,  being  what  he  is,  looked 
at  me  with  the  eyes  of  a  wounded  doe,  bowed  like  an  angel, 
and  left  me  planted  there,  an  evil-tongued,  inexcusable  old 
meddler ! 

I  am  glad  he  is  unhappy !  I  honestly  believe  he  is,  al- 
though his  pallor  may  have  been  only  the  result  of  an  in- 
digestible supper — however,  I've  told  you  my  news,  and 
mustn't  wamble  on  like  this. 

If  I  hear  anything  more  I'll  let  you  know  and  I  daresay 
it  will  be  soon.  My  poor  butterfly  Amy  can't  possibly  stay 
in  a  little  village.  She'll  either  go  mad  or  cut  her  throat. 
And  Clementine  has  promised  to  let  Donald  know  if  any- 
thing happens,  he  has  promised  to  tell  me  and  I  in  my  turn 
promise  to  tell  you! 

It  is  good  to  be  in  the  country.  If  only  Amy  were  here 
with  me.  It  hurts  me  a  little  that  she  should  prefer  to  be 
with  perfect  strangers,  but  the  relief  of  knowing  that  she's 
all  right  is  too  tremendous  for  me  to  be  ungrateful. 

Cloudesley  has  gone  to  Maiden  Aqualate.  He  says  very 
little,  but  I  know  that  he  is  intensely  sorry  for  his  wife. 
Ir  of  course,  told  him  nothing  about  Captain  Hood.  You 
will,  I  hope,  have  a  delightful  rest,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to 
see  you  in  the  autumn. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

LAWRENCE  CROXLEY. 


XLVIII 

EPICURUS  said,"  Mrs.  Dorset  announced  with 
patent  pride,  "that  God  would  like  to  prevent 
evil  and  cannot ;  or  He  could  prevent  evil  and 
will  not ;  or  He  neither  would  nor  could !" 

Mr.  Bullace,  who  was  busy  pruning  a  pear-tree, 
turned  and  looked  at  her  through  his  eyebrows  as  his 
granddaughter  called  that  particular  upward  gaze. 

"Quoting,"  he  remarked,  returning  to  his  work,  "is 
always  a  crime ;  but  it's  a  sin  when  it's  done  incorrectly." 

Mrs.  Dorset  gave  a  little,  wan  smile.  "Back  to  the 
post,"  she  exclaimed,  using  the  young  girl's  formula 
for  making  him  realize  that  he  had  been  uttering 
his  thoughts  instead  of,  as  he  believed,  merely  think- 
ing! 

"Bless  me,  did  I  say  that  aloud?  That  about  quot- 
ing? I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Dorset,  but  it's  true." 

"No,  it  isn't.  Epicurus  did  say  it,"  she  persisted, 
her  vanity  hurt. 

"He  did.  You're  right  so  far  as  you  go,  my  dear. 
Only — you  forget  the  best  of  it !  'Or  He  would  like  to 
and  can.'  " 

257 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Then,"  she  flashed,  illuminated,  by  a  ready  pang  of 
her  own  pain,  "why  doesn't  He?" 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  the  sky  agog  with  great 
blustery,  restless  clouds,  the  downs  blotted  with  their 
moving  shadows,  the  smell  of  the  sea  in  the  air,  together 
with  the  smell  of  boiling  raspberry  jam,  warm  roses,  and 
tar,  from  a  newly  mended  bit  of  the  road. 

Behind  the  hedge  at  the  end  of  the  Rectory  garden 
hung,  in  what,  if  the  wind  had  behaved  itself,  would  have 
been  decent  seclusion,  the  week's  washing.  But  the 
wind  did  not  behave  itself  so  every  now  and  then  a  shirt 
of  the  Rector's  or  a  petticoat  or  even  a  chemise  of 
Jargonelle's  or  the  cook's  ballooned  gayly  and  indeco- 
rously against  the  background  of  sky  and  trees. 

The  old  clergyman  rose  from  the  chair  on  which  he 
had  been  kneeling,  and,  turning  round  towards  his  caller, 
glanced  down  the  garden  and  up  to  the  downs. 

"Well,"  he  answered  in  triumph,  "doesn't  He?" 

Amy  shrugged  her  shoulders.  If  he  was  going  to  be 
a  parson  she  had,  obviously,  no  more  to  say. 

She  liked  the  old  man  in  an  odd  way  and  it  was  as 
much  because  of  this  liking  as  it  was  because  of  the 
immense  fatigue  that  had  come  over  her,  that  she  was 
still  at  Bird's  Fountain  at  the  end  of  a  week.  Every 
(day  she  had  intended  to  be  her  last  one  there ;  twice 
she  had  sent  Clementine  to  the  post  office  with  a  telegram 
recalling  Donald,  each  time  to  fly  down  the  hill  and 

258 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

retrieve  the  message  at  the  crossroads.  When  she  went, 
she  was  going  to  the  ever  hospitable  Molly  Beauchamp 
and  send  for  the  equally  obliging  Acton  Goodwin.  But, 
possibly  just  because  she  could  go  at  any  moment,  she 
still  lingered  in  the  dull  little  village,  her  sole  com- 
panions an  old  parson  and  a  long-legged  colt  of  a  girl. 

Mr.  Bullace  moved  his  chair  and,  planting  it  firmly 
on  the  hard  ground,  set  to  work  on  year-old  peach-trees, 
his  lips  pursed  absurdly,  his  odd  hair  sticking  up  in  little 
bunches  all  over  his  head.  "This  little  maid's  ances- 
tors," he  observed  after  a  pause,  "were  Chinese.  One 
of  them  migrated  to  Persia  about  2000  B.  c.,  and  one 
of  her  descendants  was  brought  to  Italy  thence  by 
Claudius." 

"Indeed,"  Amy  murmured  politely,  wondering  why 
Mrs.  Keel,  otherwise  Miss  Cavendish,  had  not  answered 
her  letter. 

Mr.  Bullace  nodded,  perfectly  satisfied  with  her  recep- 
tion of  his  bit  of  lore.  "Yes,  I've  forgotten  the  exact 
date  of  the  first  peach  in  England,  but  old  Gerard  says 
he  had  'em  all  in  his  garden,  and  I  believe  it  was  Wolf 
who  brought  'em.  That  would  mean  about  the  fifteenth 
—wouldn't  it?" 

"Who  was  Wolf?"  (She  must  have  had  my  letter. 
And  surely  she'll  mention  him  when  she  answers  it?) 

"The  King's  gardener." 

Amy,  meeting  his  gaze,  the  clear,  unsilvered  gaze  of 
259 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

one  not  woolgathering,  pulled  herself  together.     "At 
Buckingham  Palace?" 

The  old  man's  eyes  changed ;  they  now  bore  a  distinct 
glare  of  irritation.  "Wolf,  as  I  have  told  you  before," 
he  said  stiffly,  "was  the  gardener  of  Henry  VIII." 

She  was  incomparable  at  an  apology,  so  the  glare 
soon  departed  from  that  sweet  old  brown  eye,  and  the 
soft  snip  of  the  pruning-knife  was  again  heard. 

"Please  tell  me  about  pears,  Mr.  Bullace,"  she  urged 
gently  to  please  him.  He  shook  his  head  obdurately, 
adding,  after  a  while,  "She  means  it  kindly,  but  it  only 
bores  the  poor  thing." 

"Back  to  the  post!" 

The  girl  Jargonelle  had  come  over  the  lawn  silently 
in  her  shabby  old  tennis-shoes  and  stood  laughing  at 
him,  her  teeth  glistening  like  a  dog's. 

"Don't  tease  him,"  admonished  Amy. 

"I  will  tease  him.  As  to  pears,  they  are  native  to 
England — flourished  here  in  the  thirteenth  century,  and 
Edward  I  loved  'em.  He  made  me  learn  that  when  I 
was  small — and  miles  and  miles  about  apples.  And 
plums.  The  plum  is  a  Syrian.  That's  why  he's  purple 
— Syre  and  Tydon,  you  know !"  She  roared  with  laugh- 
ter and  hugged  her  grandfather.  "Have  you  told  her 
about  quinces,  Gromp " 

"I  won't  be  called  Gromp!"  protested  the  old  man 
passionately.  "I  hate  to  be  called  Gromp !" 

260 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"The  quince,"  the  girl  went  on,  rejoicing  in  her  non- 
sense, and  expressing  in  her  face  more  mirth  than  Amy 
Dorset  had  ever  seen  in  anyone's,  "was  the  Golden  Apple 
of  the  Hesp " 

Her  grandfather  stretched  forth  a  sly  hand  and  gave 
her  muscular  arm  a  pinch  that  hurt. 

They  both  roared  with  laughter  now,  and  Mrs.  Crump 
came  out  to  tell  them  that  lunch  was  ready. 

Amy  would  not  stay,  and  made  her  way  back  to  her 
temporary  home,  as  Annie  Elizabeth  Dawson  had  once 
called  it  to  her. 


XLIX 

Whelkington-on-Sea, 

Friday. 
DEAR  MRS.  DORSET, 

Thanks  for  your  kind  letters.  I  am  glad  you  are  in  the 
country,  for  it  was  very  close  in  town.  It  was  very  dusty. 

I  am  very  well,  and  everything  is  all  right.  You  know 
what  I  mean.  Archie  said  I  wasn't  to  write  to  you  but  I 
could  not  disregard  your  kind  letter.  I  did  not  show  it  to 
him. 

At  first  he  was  very  angry  with  me  for  telling  you,  but 
gradually  he  got  all  right,  and  he's  very  kind  now.  I  quite 
understand  that  you  were  vexed.  I  know  he's  bad,  but  that 
doesn't  so  much  matter  to  me  and  somehow  I  can't  help 
caring  for  him.  I  know  I'm  a  fool,  but  I  can't  help  it.  He's 
fond  of  me,  too,  in  his  way  and  now  that  you've  gone  he 
seems  to  miss  me  and  sort  of  cling  to  me. 

It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  offer  to  help  me  but  I  don't 
need  it  now.  Poor  fellow,  he  hadn't  really  realized  how 
worried  I  was,  or  he'd  have  come  long  ago — he's  very  kind 
when  you  know  him,  really.  I  hope  you  won't  think  it  very 
wrong  of  me  to  go  on  seeing  him.  I  simply  couldn't  say 
no  when  he  wants  me,  and  besides  he  doesn't  have  to  spend 
lots  of  money  on  me  like  he  does  on  some  of  the  others. 
You  can  trust  me  never  to  tell  about  you  and  him,  and  I  am 

with  kindest  regards, 

Very  truly, 

Your  friend, 

YVONNE  CAVENDISH. 
My  real  name  is  Jessie  Keel. 

262 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

This  letter,  which  arrived  a  day  or  two  later,  threw 
Amy  back  into  a  slough  of  frenzied  woe  from  which 
she  made  no  effort  to  escape. 

She  lay  in  bed  all  the  morning,  pretending,  even  to 
Clementine,  that  she  had  a  blinding  headache. 

Over  and  over  she  read  the  letter,  too  miserable  her- 
self to  pity  the  writer,  and  a  prey  to  violent  jealousy. 

This  Jessie  Keel,  this  half-educated  little  thing  whom 
he  had  ill-treated  and  cast  off,  was  seeing  him,  hearing 
him.  She  was  by  the  sea,  miles  from  his  father's  house, 
where  he  was  supposed  to  be  spending  the  month,  yet 
she  was  seeing  him.  He  cared  enough  for  her  to  go  to 
the  trouble  of  taking  frequent  journeys  to  reach  her. 

He  could  buy  a  ticket  for  Whelkington,  thinking,  "I 
am  going  to  see  Yvonne" — he  would  sit  two  hours  in  a 
hot,  dusty  train  thinking  of  Yvonne,  he  would  reach 
Whelkington  and  endure  the  horrors  of  some  old  station 
fly  and  crawl  along  to — Yvonne.  Yvonne,  indeed ! 

To  Jessie  Keel.  Mrs.  Jessie  Keel.  What  a  name! 
And  she  herself,  Amy  Dorset,  would  give  all  she  owned 
in  the  world  to  see  him  for  one  single  hour.  She  would 
walk  barefoot  to  Canterbury  to  see  him. 

And  he  was  seeing  Jessie  Keel. 

In  her  misery  Mrs.  Dorset  finally  rose,  and,  dressing 
herself  alone,  a  thing  she  had  not  done  since  her  mar- 
riage, put  on  her  hat.  She  would  go  for  a  walk.  She 
could  not  see  even  Clementine. 

263 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

If  that  tiresome  old  parson  or  that  giggling  girl 
came  near  her  she  should  scream  and  go  mad. 

As  she  was  leaving  the  room,  Clementine  met  her,  a 
telegram  on  a  little  salver. 

"Madame  is  dressed!"  The  good  soul's  ejaculation 
met  with  no  response. 

Her  mistress  was  staring  at  the  telegram,  her  face 
flooded  with  a  blush  that  transfigured  it. 

For  a  moment  she  looked  twenty. 

"I — I  am  going  over  to  the  Rectory,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  with  a  lovely  quiver  in  it.  "I  didn't  see  that  cher 
vieil  Mossieur  yesterday.  I  shall  lunch  there — it  will 
please  him — and  I  shall  be  back  at  about  three.  Good- 
bye." 

And  away  she  ran,  her  little  figure  as  light  as  a 
feather  and  as  buoyant  as  a  wave. 

The  maid  went  to  the  bed  and,  after  staring  at  it  for 
a  moment,  laid  her  hand  on  one  of  the  pillows,  rubbing 
it  gently. 

"I  knew  it,"  she  muttered.  "I  knew  it.  And  now " 


MR.  BULLACE  was  delighted  to  see  his  self- 
invited  guest,  and  greeted  her  with  a  com- 
pliment. 

"Your  cheeks  are  embalmed  like  a  mellow  costard," 
he  cried,  lumbering  towards  her  from  the  library  table 
where  he  had  been  writing  a  sermon.  At  the  sound  of 
her  laughter  he  stared  afresh. 

"I  have,"  she  said,  "never  been  told  that  my  face  was 
like  a  custard!" 

"Ho,  ho — a  custard,  indeed !  A  costard  is  an  apple, 
Madame  Butterfly,  and  that's  where  the  word  coster- 
monger  comes  from !  But  sit  down,  sit  down.  Yester- 
day was  a  dull  day,  for  I  did  not  see  you." 

Never  had  he  so  liked  her.  Out  of  her  happiness 
flowed  a  stream  of  kindness,  of  sympathy,  even  almost 
tenderness. 

"You  have  had  good  news?"  he  asked. 
'  "Yes." 

The  old  man  had,  on  first  meeting  her,  asked  her  one 
or  two  perfectly  natural  questions,  her  evasive  answers 
to  which  had  told  him  they  were  not  welcome. 

265 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "I  am  glad,  my  dear," 
he  said  gently.  "It  is  good  to  see  you  happy.  Happy 
people,"  he  added,  more  to  himself  than  to  her,  "are 
always  so  good." 

He  sat  down  at  his  table,  staring  with  absent  eyes  at 
his  half-finished  sermon.  Finally  he  took  up  his  pen  and 
resumed  his  work  as  if  he  were  quite  alone. 

Amy  rose  and  went  out  by  the  window. 

Filbasket — "young  Filbasket"  as  he  was  still  called, 
though  his  antick  parent  had  been  in  the  churchyard  for 
over  ten  years — a  short  burly  man  of  fifty-odd  years, 
was  working  in  the  garden,  and,  because  she  was  so 
happy,  she  went  to  him. 

"Good  morning,  miss — ma'am." 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

She  had  never  smiled  at  him  before  and,  humble  old 
fellow  that  he  was,  he  liked  it. 

"Turning  the  yearth  over  for  the  autumn  flowers, 
ma'am,"  he  answered,  gazing  at  her.  His  mind  and  soul 
were  full  of  romantic  admiration,  for  inwardly  he  was 
comparing  her  to  a  Madonna  lily,  but  his  manners  were 
not  equal  to  romantic  expression,  so  when  he  had  spoken 
he  spat  on  his  hands. 

She  gave  him  another  smile  and  walked  away. 

"I  must,"  she  thought,  "give  that  man  Donald  a  pres- 
ent for  his  baby.  How  clever  he  was  to  know  that  I 
shouldn't  mind  him  telling  Archie !" 

266 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Her  lack  of  logic,  her  absent  inconsistency,  her  folly, 
her  weakness,  all  these  things  were,  in  the  immensity 
of  her  happiness,  invisible  to  her. 

She  who  had  been  a  fool,  she  thought,  was  now  wise. 
She  had  taken  a  leaf  out  of  the  despised  Jessie  Keel's 
book.  He  was  not  perfect,  her  poor  love,  but  he  was 
her  love,  and  that  "was"  should  be  enough. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  thing  to  forgive,  Mr.  Bullace,"  she 
said  suddenly  at  lunch,  "isn't  it?" 

The  old  man,  who  had  been  smiling,  turned  to  her,  his 
face  grave. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "forgiveness  is  beautiful — when  it  is 
justified." 

Jargonelle,  who  had  spilt  mint  sauce  on  her  frock 
and  was  scraping  it  off  with  a  knife,  stared.  "Why, 
Gromp,"  she  began,  but  stopped  short. 

Mrs.  Dorset  did  not  understand  him,  either.  It  was 
odd  that  he,  the  kindliest,  most  unresentful  old  fellow 
alive,  whose  whole  life  was  made  up  of  love  and  friend- 
liness, should  speak  of  the  possible  un justifiability  of 
forgiveness. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

He  was  silent,  his  eyes  fixed  absently  on  the  wall,  and 
gathering  their  strange  silvery  and  frosty  look. 

"Back  to  the  post,  dear  Mr.  Bullace,"  Amy  said, 
dimpling  and  gentle. 

He  started,  pushing  back  a  lump  of  hair. 
267 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Yes,  yes — I  was  forgetting.  Do  you  know,  my 
dears,  I  am  convinced,"  he  answered  gayly,  "that  my 
brain  is  going?" 

After  lunch  Mrs.  Dorset  went  back  to  the  question. 

"What  did  you  mean?"  she  asked  him.  "I  want  to 
know  for  a  particular  reason." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you.  I  mean  that  unconsidered, 
merely  emotional  forgiveness  does  more  harm  than  the 
infinitely  rarer  sin  of  hardness." 

"Merely  emotional  forgiveness?"  she  faltered. 

"Yes." 

"But — 'seventy  times  seven'?" 

"Christ's  words  have  been  more  misunderstood  and 
misrepresented  than  the  words  of  any  man  who  ever 
lived,  my  dear.  He  was  not  only  always  good :  He  was 
also  always  sensible.  And  you  may  be  quite  sure,"  the 
old  man  went  on,  wagging  his  big  head  with  a  cheerful 
smile,  "that  He  never  meant  a  lazy  or  a  selfish  tolerance 
when  He  said  'forgiveness'." 

She  walked  slowly  home,  and,  going  into  the  drawing- 
room,  sat  down  opposite  the  little  fernery  that  in  the 
winter  was  a  fireplace. 

She  was  disturbed  in  an  odd,  indefinable  way ;  she  felt 
uneasy ;  her  happiness  had  gone. 

Something  had  been  stirred  in  her  mind,  and  she  did 
not  know  what  it  was. 

268 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

The  room  was  very  quiet,  and  smelled  of  roses.  The 
soft  gray  walls,  with  their  array  of  valueless,  priceless 
old  pictures,  seemed  to  shut  her  away  from  the  world 
which  she  understood. 

She  felt  a  stranger  and  lonely.  She  would  have 
liked  to  cry,  but  must,  she  felt,  not  risk  reddening  her 
eyes. 

The  clock  under  the  portrait  of  Sir  James  Pinsent 
struck  one.  It  was  half-past  three,  and  she  must  go 
and  dress.  She  would  wear — odd  old  man,  to  say  such 
things — tolerance  wasn't  forgiveness,  justifiable  for- 
giveness  

The  afternoon  sun  came  in  through  the  open  win- 
dow and  lay  like  a  shallow  pool  on  the  old,  polished 
floor.  A  pool !  She  would  take  him  up  to  see  the  foun- 
tain. She  would  wear  white — all  white,  and  this  little 
hat  with  harebells.  She  must  hurry.  Justifiable  for- 
giveness  


LI 


WHEN  Hood,  directed  by  the  discreet  Clemen- 
tine, had  climbed  up  the  path,  he  found  Mrs. 
Dorset  by  the  fountain. 

Kneeling  by  her,  he  took  her  hands  in  his  and  raised 
them  to  his  lips,  the  simple  act  seeming,  through  his  way 
of  accomplishing  it,  a  kind  of  rite. 

"You  forgive  me?"  he  said. 

And  even  in  the  undoubted  rapture  of  the  moment 
she  wished  that  he  hadn't  made  use  of  that  particular 
word. 

"Yes." 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  and  happiness  he  sat  down  by 
her  and  laid  his  head  for  a  moment  against  her  shoulder. 
"I  have  been  horribly  unhappy,"  he  declared,  and  she 
knew  by  his  face  that  it  was  the  truth. 

Perhaps  she  was  nearer  the  truth  than  she  knew 
when  she  thought,  half-defiant  of  another  thought, 
"Poo*r  darling,  he  couldn't  help  it." 

The  fatigue  natural  in  one  who  has  made  a  long 
journey  on  a  very  hot  day  by  cross-country  trains 
stood  the  penitent  in  good  stead.  He  had  a  headache  and 

270 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

was  pale  and  a  little  haggard,  and  Amy,  of  course,  at- 
tributed these  ravages  exclusively  to  his  feeling  for  her. 

They  sat  in  the  pleasant  shade  by  the  fountain  very 
quiet  for  several  minutes. 

At  last  Hood  broke  the  silence. 

"Are  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

"Yes."  The  very  baldness  of  her  answer  gave  it  a 
value  that  the  experienced  Hood  fully  appreciated,  and 
her  eyes  were  of  an  intenser  blue  than  usual. 

"You  have  missed  me?' 

"Yes.    Archie — how  could  you?" 

He  frowned  uneasily  and  his  eyes  swept  the  horizon. 

"Darling — I  have  begged  your  pardon — need  we  dis- 
cuss the  horrid  business  any  more?  I  have  been  bad, 
but  you  will  help  me  to  be  good ;  I  have  been  weak,  but 
you  will  help  me  to  be  strong."  The  hairs  of  his  little 
black  mustache  were,  she  saw,  tipped  with  gold;  there 
were  three  white  hairs  near  the  middle  of  his  satiny 
head ;  the  lines  in  his  forehead  were  deeper  than  she  had 
realized. 

It  gave  her  an  odd  feeling  of  intimacy  to  know  these 
things,  and,  bending  towards  him,  she  kissed  him  with 
extreme  tenderness. 

"All  right,  dear,"  she  murmured,  "we  won't  talk  about 
it.  Only" — remembering  with  a  pang  the  letter  she  had 
forgotten — "have  you  seen — Miss  Cavendish  since  I 
left?" 

271 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

To  her  immense  relief  he,  after  a  short  pause,  told 
the  truth.  "Yes,  I  have  seen  her." 

"When— dearest?" 

"She  is  at  the  sea ;  she  hasn't  been  well,  and  is  at  the 
sea  near  where  I  have  been  staying  with  my  father's 
sister.  She,  my  aunt,  broke  her  leg  ten  days  ago,  so  my 
mother  and  I  went  down  to  see  her." 

"Oh!" 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  the  only  thing 
that  broke  the  palpitant  summer  silence  was  the  thick, 
slow  bubble  of  the  fountain. 

"Amy,"  the  man's  dark  eyes  were  full  of  pleading, 
"don't  think  about — that  girl — any  longer.  I  was  a 
beast,  but  I  hadn't  met  you,  and — Oh,  well,  I  can't 
explain.  All  men  do  these  things,  only  most  of  'em 
don't  get  found  out." 

"Justifiable  forgiveness,"  the  old  parson's  phrase, 
came  into  her  mind  almost  with  a  little  clash.  Was  this 
forgiveness  of  hers  a  justifiable  one? 

"But,  Archie,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  his,  and 
looking  away  from  him,  "you  went  on  seeing  her — after 
you  and  I  loved  each  other." 

He  drew  a  deep,  audible  breath.  "Amy,"  he  an- 
swered, "don't  you  trust  me  at  all?" 

The  absurdity  of  the  question  did  not  appear  to  either 
of  them;  Hood  himself  believed  that  he  ought  to  be 
trusted,  and  Mrs.  Dorset  was  horror-stricken  by  the 

272 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

reproach  in  his  voice.  Thus  people  innocently  deceive 
themselves,  unconsciously  rejoicing  in  their  deception. 

"I  can't  explain,"  he  went  on,  a  minute  later,  seeking 
refuge  in  the  well-worn  cover;  "you  wouldn't  under- 
stand. I  never  loved  her  at  all,  the  poor  thing.  And, 
mind  you,  in  her  way  she's  a  very  nice  woman." 

"I  am  sure  of  it.    And  she  loves  you." 

Hood  was  not  at  all  a  fatuous  man,  nor  was  he  even 
vain  in  the  usual  way  of  lady-killers.  Indeed,  he  might 
be  better  described  as  a  lady-trap. 

He  was  as  dangerous  to  women  as  honey  is  to  flies; 
he  was  more  the  pursued  than  the  pursuer;  he  was  an 
unregistered  menace  to  the  peace  of  fools ;  the  trap  does 
not  chase  the  mice,  but  it  catches  them.  Thus  Archie 
Hood,  with  his  unoccupied  mind,  his  kind  heart,  his 
mediocre  brain,  his  inflammable  emotions.  He  stirred 
uneasily  at  Mrs.  Dorset's  last  remark. 

"She  does,  dear,  and  I  think  you  oughtn't  to  see 
her — for  her  sake." 

"All  right,  I  won't.  Now  tell  me,  my  loveliest,"  he 
caught  her  to  him  and  kissed  her,  "how  long  are  you 
going  to  stay  in  this  awful  place?" 

"It  isn't  awful !" 

Amused  by  her  vehemence,  he  kissed  her  again.  "Tell 
me  how  you  happened  to  come  here." 

She  told  him. 

"Well,  I'm  jolly  glad  you  didn't  go  to  Molly  Beau- 
273 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

champ's,"  he  commended,  virtuously.  "She's  a  beastly 
woman." 

"O  Archie!" 

"Yes,  'O  Archie' — a  horrid  woman." 

Oh,  ginger,  cold  to  the  tongue! 

The  afternoon  crept  westward,  leaving  shadows 
stretching  behind  it  like  footprints.  And  by  the  Bird's 
Fountain  sat  the  very  happy  lovers,  forgetting  every- 
thing but  their  two  selves.  Peace  after  pain  is  a  de- 
light that  everybody  has  experienced,  so  poor  little  Amy 
Dorset's  state  of  mind  will  be  understood.  Finally 
they  rose  and  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  terrace  watching 
the  sunset. 

"You  will  come,  then?"  Hood  said. 

"Yes.  To  the  Crossroads  Inn  at  Welling  at  four  to- 
morrow." 

"Yes.  There  are  no  houses  there,  not  a  soul  will 
see  us,  and  at  Clatton  there  is  only  the  old  caretaker 
and  her  husband,  and  they  don't  matter." 

She  nodded,  a  little  absently.  "Archie,  I'd  so  much 
rather  go  to  Maiden  Aqualate  and  have  you  come  there. 
You  see,  it  would  really  be  better,  for  Cloudesley  will 
be  there,  and " 

Hood  burst  out  laughing.  "Oh,  you  darling,  you 
sweet  little  angel-goose!  Do  you  think  I  want  to  see 
Cloudesley?" 

"He  would  be  very  nice.  You  know  he  wanted  to 
274 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

see  you  in  town;  he's  going  to  do  everything  for 
us " 

Hood's  face  darkened.  He  loved  Mrs.  Dorset,  sin- 
cerely and  far  more  than  he  had  ever  loved  anyone 
else,  and  he  was  not  ungrateful  to  Dorset  for  his  in- 
comprehensible acquiescence,  but  at  the  same  time,  he 
did  not  wish  to  be  the  man's  guest;  he  had  no  desire 
to  discuss  things  with  him,  and  least  of  all  did  he  like 
the  idea  of  giving  up  his  runaway  honeymoon. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  take  Amy  to  Clatton,  a 
little  old  house  of  his  on  the  edge  of  Dartmoor,  and  to 
Clatton  he  meant  to  take  her. 

"Darling,"  he  pleaded,  "I  should  die  at  Maiden 
Aqualate,  and  I  want  to  be  all  alone  with  you  at  Clat- 
ton. I  used  to  go  there  for  my  holidays  when  I  was 
a  child ;  I'll  show  you  the  pool  where  I  learned  to  swim 
and  the  apple-tree  in  which  I  wrote  my  first  poem " 

"I'm  sure  it  was  a  love-poem,"  she  flashed. 

"It  wasn't,  then !  It  was  an  Ode  to  War,  and  it  be- 
gan 'O  War  Soul  with  thy  fingers  dripping  red.'  It 
was  a  beauty,  I  can  tell  you!" 

Slowly  they  walked  down  the  hill,  and  where  the 
roads  branched  he  left  her,  going  to  the  inn  where  he 
had  housed  his  car. 

And  she  went  on  to  the  left,  and  in  at  the  white- 
barred  gate  by  the  columbarium. 


LH 


IT  so  happened  that  a  pouring  rain  that  night  inter- 
vened between  Mrs.  Dorset  and  the  outer  world. 
The  Rector  and  Jargonelle  the  leggy,  who  had 
intended  to  "come  in  after  dinner,"  as  the  phrase  went 
in  Bird's  Fountain,  did  not  come  in,  and  Amy  was 
alone. 

At  first  it  did  not  matter.  She  was  very  happy,  and 
wandered  about  from  room  to  room  humming  to  her- 
self in  an  odd  little  way  that  she  regarded  as  singing. 

Her  conscience  was  absolutely  at  rest ;  from  the  mo- 
ment when  she  had  told  her  husband  about  Hood,  she 
had  had  no  further  qualms.  Clow  did  not  mind,  so  all 
was  well. 

And,  Hood's  charm  strong  on  her  still,  her  mind 
was  in  a  kind  of  haze  of  weary  bliss. 

The  rain  came  down  hard,  clattering  against  the 
windows  of  the  drawing-room  and  on  the  roof.  Mrs. 
Dorset  was  one  of  the  happy  people  to  whom  rain  is  a 
pleasure,  almost  a  luxury  when  heard  from  a  warm 
room:  it  gave  her  an  odd  feeling  for  extra  intimacy 
with  herself;  she  felt,  sitting  by  the  fire  under  the 

276 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

portrait,  as  if  a  charming  Amy  had  come  to  visit  her. 
And  this  other  Amy  knew  and  loved  Archie  Hood,  so 
that  they  were  very  cozy  together  in  the  firelight,  the 
two  shaded  lamps  glowing  softly  in  distant  corners  of 
the  room. 

Sir  James  Pinsent  gazed  down  with  benevolence  from 
his  black  frame,  flanked  by  William  Henry  Saint  and 
his  old  wife,  whose  profiles  stood  out  with  singular  dis- 
tinctness in  the  firelight.  In  spite  of  the  rain  the  night 
was  warm,  and  towards  ten  Mrs.  Dorset  rose  from  her 
reverie  and,  drawing  back  the  faded  curtains,  opened 
the  French  window  opening  on  to  Alastair  Bowen's 
Venetian  balcony. 

A  rush  of  scented  air  met  her  as  she  stepped  out. 
The  rose-garden  was  only  a  few  feet  below — this  side 
of  the  house  was  high,  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  house 
was  built  on  a  little  hill — and  in  the  wet  dusk  pale 
clusters  and  stars  and  streaks  showed,  that  were  rain- 
soaked  roses. 

The  moon,  routed  by  the  wet,  had  yet  not  withdrawn 
far,  and  from  behind  a  cloud  sent  through  a  faint  glow, 
an  "I  could  an  I  would"  effect  full  of  romance. 

Under  this  pale  clarity  the  square  tower  rose  from 
the  bulky  mass  that  was  the  tree-embowered  church, 
and  two  windows  in  the  Rectory  were  bright. 

Suddenly  there  came  to  the  watching  woman  a  sound 
of  music.  Someone  was  singing. 

277 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Jargonelle,"  she  said  softly,  aloud.    "How  pretty !" 

The  young  girl  had  an  odd,  deep  voice  of  the  greatest 
softness  and  mellowness.  The  Rector  said  that  this 
was  because  she  ate  so  many  peaches  and  pears,  Amy 
remembered,  smiling. 

And  now,  in  the  quiet  night  the  voice  was  very  beau- 
tiful. The  song  was  a  hymn,  and  she  was  obviously 
practicing  for  Sunday;  some  phrases  she  did  over  and 
over  again. 

It  was  a  melody  that  Mrs.  Dorset  knew,  but  she 
could  not  remember  the  words. 

"What  is  it?  What  are  the  words?"  she  thought. 
Then  she  remembered  that  it  was  an  old  hymn  sung 
in  her  childhood  by  her  mother's  cook,  a  motherly  per- 
son generous  in  the  matter  of  little  cakes  and  tarts,  suf- 
ficiently fat  in  front  to  be  a  comfortable  refuge  in 
times  of  tears. 

Yes,  it  was  old  Minnie  who  had  bellowed  that  air 
among  her  pots  and  pans,  and  little  Amy  had  sung 
it  too. 

Jargonelle,  now  satisfied  with  her  details,  embarked 
on  a  finished  performance,  and  evidently  another  win- 
dow had  been  opened,  for  the  young  voice,  so  delight- 
fully free  from  the  shrillness  of  many  youthful  ones, 
poured  out  more  freely. 

It  was  one  of  the  simpler  hymns  and  it  was  a  quiet 
one.  It  sang  of  peace  and  humble  happiness. 

278 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"What  are  the  words  ?  Dear  old  Minnie — how  lovely 
her  voice  is " 

Then  suddenly  a  line  of  the  verses  came  into  the 
listener's  memory,  and  she  sang,  too,  her  queer  little 
voice  sounding  almost  like  a  bleat. 

The  rain  was  lightening  now,  and  no  longer  splashed 
as  it  fell,  and  the  moon  grew  stronger. 

Jargonelle  sang  on  and  the  church  clock  struck 
ten,  its  voice  softened  by  the  dampness. 

And  in  the  dampness,  disregarding  for  once  its  effect 
on  her  hair  or  her  delicate  frock,  Amy  Dorset  still  stood 
alone. 

"I  wonder,"  she  thought,  "how  Clow  is?     And  poor 

old  Lawrence.     I  must  write  Clow — about  Archie 

She  broke   off,   frowning  a  little.      The   thought  had 
seemed  an  intrusion. 

A  moment  later  she  realized  with  a  start  that  the 
song  had  ceased.  She  wished  that  it  had  not,  that 
it  had  gone  on  and  would  go  on,  and  that  she  could 
stand  there  still,  listening  to  it,  and  wrapt  in  the  odd 
feeling  of  aloofness  that  is  not  loneliness  that  she  had 
experienced  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

She  went  slowly  back  to  the  fire  after  closing  the 
window  for  the  night  and  drawing  the  p  -^ins. 

Old  Sir  James'  body  had  disappeared  in  an  encroach- 
ing shadow,  but  by  some  trick  of  the  lamplight,  his 
eyes  shone  with  a  live  light,  looking  straight  at  her. 

279 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

She  gave  a  little  start  as  she  sat  down.  She  had  an  ab- 
surd feeling  that  he  was  waiting  with  some  amusement 
for  her  answer  to  a  remark  he  had  just  made. 

The  fire  had  crumbled  into  a  glowing  heap  of  ashes, 
the  clock  ticked  loudly,  and  Clementine  entered  with  a 
glass  of  milk  and  a  siphon  on  a  tray. 

"II  est  dix  heures,  madame,"  she  said,  her  plain  face 
full  of  the  curious  pride  that  characterized  her  devo- 
tion to  her  mistress. 

"Murcy,  Clementine.  Put  it  down,  please.  I — I'll 
come  up  in  a  few  minutes.  H  me  fo  ecrire  oune  lettre." 

The  woman  withdrew,  and  after  a  pause  Mrs.  Dorset 
rose  and  went  to  the  beautiful  little  Chippendale  writ- 
ing-table on  which  were  arranged  the  thousand  and 
one  little  objects  necessary  to  her  correspondence. 
There  were  a  gold-topped  inkstand  of  pink  quartz,  a 
jade  pen-tray,  two  quill  pens,  their  quills  bedewed  with 
little  diamonds,  a  large,  very  important-looking  des- 
patch-box of  green  leather,  an  emblazoned  vellum 
blotting-book,  a  big  ring  with,  cut  in  its  emerald,  the 
motto  of  a  great  ducal  house,  the  motto  innocently 
adopted  by  Mrs.  Dorset  for  her  own  use  because  she 
liked  it,  and  paper  and  little  cards  of  all  sizes  and 
thicknesses,  inscribed  A.  D.  in  the  smart  simplicity 
of  dull  gold  block  letters.  A  lavish,  comprehensive, 
rather  business-like  writing-table  it  was. 

Its  owner  selected  a  sheet  of  paper  and  took  from  a 
280 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

drawer  the  plain  silver  pen-holder  with  a  J  pen  with 
which,  despite  the  quills,  she  did  the  greater  part  of 
her  writing. 

"Dear  Clow,"  she  wrote,  in  her  large,  spidery  hand, 
"I  hope  you  are  well?  Captain  Hood  was  here  today 
and  explained  things  and  I  see  that  I  was  too 
hasty " 

After  a  long  pause  she  tore  this  into  minute  bits 
and  began  again. 

"Dear  Clow,  I  was  wrong  about  Archie."  She  paused 
again,  her  little  chin  on  her  left  fist,  her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  fire. 

"Dear  Cloudesley,  I  am  sorry  I  was  so  silly  about 
Captain  Hood.  He  was  here  yesterday  and  I  am  very 
happy " 

It  was  too  warm  in  the  room. 

She  opened  the  hall  door,  thus  admitting  to  her  con- 
fused counsels  the  implacable  voice  of  the  great  clock. 

"Dear  Clow,  I  have  seen  Archie,  and  I  am  going  with 
him  to  Clatton  tomorrow.  No  one  will  know,  but  I 
want  you  to.  We  are  very  happy  and  I  hope  you  will 
soon " 

"Mrs.  Dorset!" 

Amy  jumped,  dropping  her  pen  and  blotting  her 
letter,  for  the  voice  had  been  accompanied  by  a  hard 
bang  on  the  window  behind  her. 

"Mrs.  Dorset !" 

281 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Yes,  yes,  I'm  coming " 

She  opened  the  window  on  the  high  side  of  the  gar- 
den, and  the  Rector  entered,  hatless  and  wet. 

"It's  come  on  again,"  he  said  with  a  shake,  blowing 
out,  with  a  vast  displacement  of  his  cheeks,  the  flame 
in  what  she  knew  he  always  called  his  lanthorn.  "Just 
as  I  got  to  your  gate,  down  it  pelted." 

He  thrust  a  big  stick  into  the  fire  and,  sitting  down 
by  it,  lit  his  pipe  and  settled  his  old  back  comfortably 
on  his  chair. 

"Jargonelle  was  singing,"  he  said,  "and  I  stood  by 
the  window  and  listened.  So  I  came  to  see." 

"You  came  to  see  what,  dear  Mr.  Bullace?" 

As  she  spoke  she  smiled  at  his  unconscious  deletion, 
and  he  beamed  back  at  her,  his  mouth  twisting  and 
wrinkling  round  the  pipe-stem. 

"Whether  you  really  were  lonely,  as  I  felt  you  were. 
Were  you?" 

She  hesitated.  "Not  exactly  lonely,  but  I  am  glad  to( 
see  you." 

"M-m-m.  Lonely  or  not,  you  were  alone.  And  I 
think  that  must  be  dreadful." 

The  firelight,  by  accentuating  all  his  wrinkles  and 
the  deep  caverns  of  his  eyes,  made  him  look  his  full 
age.  "I  should  hate  to  be  alone,"  he  added. 

She  laughed.  "But  you  so  often  are!  What  about 
the  winter  when  Jargonelle  is  away?" 

282 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

The  old  man  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and 
leaned  forward  in  his  chair. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  haven't  been  alone  for 
years." 

"How — how  do  you  mean?" 

He  shook  his  big  head.  "I — I  couldn't  explain. 
Loneliness  is  not  a  concrete  condition.  It  is  mental." 

"But — you  mean — do  you  mean,"  she  persisted  with 
a  new  kind  of  shyness  subduing  her  voice,  "that — 
Mrs.  Bullace  is — always  with  you?" 

"No.  In  fact,  Mrs.  Bullace  and  I,  though  we  both 
did  our  best,  weren't  much  of  a  success,  matrimonially." 
He  spoke  with  the  utmost  serenity,  with  a  smile  of 
grave  sweetness  on  his  old  lips. 

Amy,  unused  to  such  frankness,  did  not  know  how 
to  meet  it.  She  said,  "Oh,"  and  relapsed  into  silence. 

The  pause  grew  longer  and  longer,  enveloping  them 
like  a  creeping  shadow  out  of  which  something  seemed 
to  be  preventing  their  emergence. 

The  new  stick  in  the  fire  blazed  up  cheerily,  so  that 
old  Sir  James  appeared  to  wink  at  the  other  ancient. 

Amy  Dorset,  sitting  with  her  small  hands  folded, 
waited,  rapt  in  the  odd  silence.  The  strange  restful- 
ness  of  the  room  held  her  as  if  in  warm  arms. 

Finally  the  Rector  spoke.  "I  don't  like  your  hus- 
band," he  said,  emptying  his  pipe  by  knocking  it  under 
the  mantel  shelf. 

283 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Amy  flushed.  "Why  not?"  she  asked  with  indigna- 
tion. "And  besides,  you  don't  know  him." 

"No.  But  I  don't  like  him  for  behaving  in  such  a 
way  as  to  justify — that  good-looking  rampallion  who 
was  here  today." 

He  rose,  holding  out  his  hand.  "You  are  so  pretty, 
prettier  than  ever  tonight,  when  you  are  wistly.  Why," 
he  thundered  suddenly,  "isn't  he  here  to  look  after  you? 
The  man  must  be  an  absolute  fool !" 

At  the  last  phrase  his  voice  changed,  and  she  knew 
that  he  was  thinking  aloud.  This  conviction  was  made 
doubly  sure  the  next  moment  by  his  adding  in  an  un- 
dertone, "And  she,  the  pretty  bird,  with  no  brain  at 
all  to  help  her." 

Now  Mrs.  Dorset,  as  I  have  said,  honestly  believed 
herself  to  be  a  rather  intellectual  woman.  Did  she 
not  read  Plato  and  Dostoiwsky  and  could  she  not  talk 
about  Selma  Lagerlof  ? 

Her  next  observation,  even  as  she  made  it,  surprised 
herself.  For  instead  of  resenting  the  old  man's  dis- 
paraging pity,  she  cried  with  a  little  edge  in  her  voice. 
"He  is  no t  a  fool.  He  is  a  very  clever  man,  and  a  very 
good  one." 

Mr.  Bullace  smiled  suddenly,  his  face  seeming  to 
crack  all  over  as  he  did  so. 

"Good.  I  am  glad!  For  in  that  case  I  shall  soon 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  here." 

284 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Lighting  his  lantern,  he  shook  hands  with  her  and 
plodded  out  into  the  rain,  while  she,  going  to  the  writing- 
table,  stood  bv  it  looking  at  the  various  beginnings  of 
letters  that  strewed  it. 

After  a  long  pause  she  gathered  them  into  a  sheaf 
and  stuffed  them  with  the  poker  deep  down  into  the 
embers. 


LIII 

CAPTAIN  A.  HOOD, 
Cross-Roads  Inn, 

Welling,  Sussex. 

Not  very  well  unable  come  today.     Writing.     Love. 

AMY. 


LIV 


MRS.  DORSET,  Dove  Cottage, 
Bird's  Fountain, 

Sussex. 

Frightfully  worried  and  disappointed.     All  my  heart's 
love. 

A. 


LV 


The  Blue  Cottage,  Wakelands, 
Wilts, 

Friday. 
DEAREST  AMY, 

I  am  so  glad  to  know  from  Clow  that  you  are  well,  and 
that  you  apparently  are  having  a  good  time. 

He  hasn't  told  me  your  address,  so  I  send  this  to  him 
to  be  re-posted. 

Isn't  the  weather  lovely?  I  feel  amazingly  rested,  and 
if  I  could  drink  milk,  feel  sure  that  I  should  become  plump 
and  pink  and  pretty. 

Alas,  to  me  milk  tastes  of  cow  and  undisguised  eggs  taste 
of  hen  (a  very  different  thing  from  tasting  of  chicken, 
mark  you !)  and  to  my  vitiated  taste  these  things  are  odious. 

All  this  pleasant  chit-chat,  dear,  is  only  my  nervous  way 
of  skirting  round  the  danger  signal  on  the  ice  that  is  you. 
As  I  wrote  that  masterly  phrase  about  cows  and  chickens, 
my  mind  took  a  great  leap  ahead,  and  determined  that  I 
should  be  bold  and  hazardous.  So  here  goes. 

Amy  darling,  I  know.  I  know  why  he  is  not  worth  it, 
and  that  that  is  why  you  went  away. 

There ! 

Won't  you  write  to  me  and  tell  me  that  you  don't  mind 
my  knowing?  I  promise  never  to  refer  to  it  to  you,  if  you 
don't  wish  me  to,  but  I  am  so  fond  of  you  that  I  couldn't 
not  tell  you.  If  you  want  me  to,  I'll  tell  you  how  I  know. 

288 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

One  thing  on  my  word  of  honor.  I  know  that  that  nice 
little  Frenchman,  P.  le  B.,  knows,  but  it  was  not  he  who 
told  me.  You  must  believe  this,  for  he  values  your  friend- 
ship. 

I  have  seen  Clow,  but  I  have  not  told  him.  I  was  sure 
that  you  would,  when  the  time  came. 

He  is  splendid,  Clow.  It  is  my  honest  belief  that  his 
only  thought  is  your  welfare. 

God  bless  you,  dearest  Tannie.    Please  write  to  me. 
Your  affectionate 

LAWRENCE. 


Saturday 
DEAR  LAWRENCE, 

Your  letter  has  rather  upset  me.  I  have  only  time  for  a 
note,  but  I  must  tell  you  that  I  was  quite  wrong  about  A.  H. 
I  have  seen  him,  and  everything  is  all  right.  I'm  writing 
Clow  in  a  day  or  two.  I  like  being  here,  it's  a  lovely  little 
place,  and  I  am  having  a  really  good  rest.  Glad  you're 
at  the  Blue  Cottage,  it  always  does  you  good. 

Your  affv 

AMY. 


The  Blue  Cottage,  Monday 
DEAREST  AMY, 

Your  letter  was  no  letter  at  all.  It's  a  babble,  a  shadow. 
And  I  don't  like  it.  If  you  have  made  up  with  Captain 
Hood  you  are  a  fool.  He  is  a  bad  man,  not  out  of  wicked- 
ness but  out  of  his  very  fiber. 

I  don't  for  a  moment  blame  him,  or  suppose  that  he  can 
help  it — pears  that  are  all  brown  and  nasty  at  the  core  can't 
help  it,  either,  but  no  one  tries  to  live  on  such  pears !  (You 

289 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

know  the  kind  I  mean,  not  exactly  rotten,  but  blette — in 
French.) 

You  won't  trust  me,  but  I  will  trust  you.  You  think  I 
love  Clow.  Well,  I  do.  With  all  my  heart.  And  if  you 
were  idiotic  enough  to  marry  Archie  Hood,  I  am  sure  that 
Clow  would  marry  me.  And  if  he  did  I  should  be  the  hap- 
piest woman  on  this  earth.  But — with  my  whole  heart  I 
hope  that  you  won't  be  such  a  fool. 

In  the  first  place  Captain  Hood's  no  good,  and  in  the 
second  place  Clow  is.  What's  more — for  in  return  for  your 
niggardly  lack  of  confidence  I  insist  on  deluging  you  with 
mine — Clow  doesn't  care  a  brass  button  for  me.  So  there 
you  are.  I  dare  say  you  will  be  furious  over  this  letter,  but 
I  don't  care  a  d-a-m-n  if  you  are.  Your  affectionate 

LAWRENCE. 


MY  DEAR  LAWRENCE, 

I  am  most  unwilling  to  break  my  promise  to  you,  but  un- 
less you  yourself  can  go  down  to  Bird's  Fountain  and  look 
after  Amy,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  go. 

It  is  not  safe  for  her  to  be  alone,  and  whether  she  likes 
it  or  not,  someone  must  take  care  of  her. 

It  seems  incredible  that  she  should  ever  even  speak  to 
Hood  again,  but  women  are  very  odd  and  the  fellow  cer- 
tainly has  great  charm. 

I  was  quite  willing  to  do  all  I  could  for  her  happiness, 
poor  little  thing,  but  I  cannot  tolerate  any  further  inter- 
course with  him. 

Go  and  see  her,  Lawrence — never  mind  her  letter. 

Can't  you  see  the  pathos  of  it  ? 

My  dear,  I  don't  often  ask  favors  of  anyone,  but  I  do 
ask  this  of  you.  Yours, 

C.  D. 

290 


BIRD^S  FOUNTAIN 

Houlgate,  Monday 
DEAR  MADAME, 

You  having  honored  me  with  your  confidence,  I  venture 
to  send  you  from  the  villa  of  a  lady  whom  for  years  I  have 
known  to  be  the  best  woman  in  the  world,  my  homages  and 
best  wishes,  together  with  a  prayer  for  two  words  to  relieve 
my  anxiety  on  your  behalf. 

Is  all  well  with  you?  It  hurts  my  heart  to  rememb^" 
tears  in  your  beautiful  eyes. 

Were  it  possible  I  would  ask  you  to  meet  Madame  Samain. 
There  is  in  her  a  power  of  healing  that  I  would  have  you 
know. 

But  you  are  there,  so  far  away — England  is  much  farther 
from  France  than  France  is  from  England — and  for  many 
years  this  dear  lady  has  not  been  able  even  to  walk. 

Therefore,  once  more,  I  beg  you  to  write  to  me,  if  only 
two  words. 

I  kiss  your  hands  and  lay  at  your  feet  the  expression  of 
my  most  profound  homage. 

J.  PASQUIER  LE  BRETON. 


Tuesday 
MRS.  DORSET,  Dove  Cottage,  Bird's  Fountain,  Sussex. 

My  mother  seriously  ill.     Please  write  to  me  immediately 
has  anything  happened.     All  my  love. 

ARCHIE. 

DORSET,  Maiden  Aqualate,  Malcome. 

For  Heaven's  sake  do  not  go  to  her.     Am  writing  you. 
Don't  worry. 

LAWRENCE. 


LVI 


MRS.  DORSET  wrote  to  Hood,  explaining  that 
she  had  really  not  felt  well  enough  to  meet  him 
at  Welling  and  that  she  had  not  written  be- 
fore because  she  had  not  known  quite  where  she  could 
do  so.  Her  letter,  short  and  constrained,  had  made  him 
uneasy,  and  he  was  on  the  point  of  going  down  to  see 
her  when  his  mother,  eating  cherries  at  luncheon,  put 
her  hand  to  her  head,  muttered  something  and  lost 
consciousness  as  suddenly  as  a  candle  loses  its  flame 
in  a  sudden  draught. 

One  of  Hood's  good  qualities  was,  not  his  love  for 
his  mother,  for  that  was  a  gift  rather  than  an  achieve- 
ment, but  his  devotion  to  her. 

Many  men  really  love  mothers  from  whom  they  are 
pretty  constantly  absent,  but  this  man,  despite  the 
multifarious  engagements  incidental  to  his  career  of 
roue,  was  never  too  busy  to  see  her  whom  he  called  by 
her  Christian  name  of  Adelaide,  nearly  every  day  of 
his  life. 

So  when  poor  Adelaide  was  taken  ill  his  grief  was 
singularly  sincere  and  unselfish. 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

He  sat  by  her,  her  hand  in  his  for  hours  at  a  time, 
and  as  she  grew  better  he  hardly  ever  left  her. 

"I'm  going  to  get  over  this,  Dino,"  she  said  one  gay 
morning  when  the  curtains  were  blowing  about  in  a 
fine  high  wind. 

"Of  course  you  are,  dearest,"  he  answered,  kissing  her 
cheek. 

"Remarkably  little  of  course  about  it  there  was  for 
some  days,"  she  retorted.  "I  knew.  A  stroke's  a 
stroke,  when  all's  said  and  done.  However,"  she  added, 
patting  his  hand  with  her  little  gnarled  one,  "I  am 
extremely  glad  to  live  on  a  while  longer.  Do  you  know, 
Dino,  I  never  before  realized  that  I  was  an  old  woman? 
No,  Nurse,  I  will  not  eat  my  arrow-root,  I  will  not, 
and  you  may  take  it  away.  Or  shall  we  make  her  eat 
it  herself,  my  son?" 

The  nurse,  a  very  pretty  woman  in  a  blue-and-white 
striped  uniform,  went  out  after  a  last  look  at  the 
Captain,  as  the  servants  called  him. 

She  was  a  fully  certificated  nurse,  but  she  was  human, 
and  Archie's  black  eyes  had  not  failed  to  observe  her 
charms.  His  eyes  could  not  fail  to  observe  feminine 
charms,  even  then,  at  his  beloved  Adelaide's  bed- 
side. 

"No,"  the  invalid  went  on,  as  the  door  closed,  "I  know 
of  course  that  other  women  of  sixty  are  old,  but  I 
never  thought  that  7  was  !" 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"You  aren't,  dear.  You  are  young,  and  always  will 
be." 

"Thanks,  son.  Well,  however  that  may  be,  I  am  not 
growing  any  more  youthful,  and  I  want  you  to  marry 
before  my  next  stroke." 

"Mother!  Don't  talk  about  strokes."  His  eyes 
were  full  of  the  tears  that  were  such  an  asset  to  him 
in  his  various  and  variegated  love  affairs. 

She  laughed.  "All  right.  But  I  may  talk  about 
your  marrying.  You  are  thirty-five." 

"I  am." 

"Well,  you  were  seven  when  your  poor  father  was 
your  age.  He  was  really  very  fond  of  you,  you 
know " 

A  gardener  passed  under  the  window  whistling.  The 
old  lady  listened  for  a  moment  and  then  drew  a  deep 
breath. 

"I  am  disgustingly  weak  still,"  she  said.  "I  must 
rest  or  that  woman  will  be  telling  tales  to  the  doctor. 
Dear,  why  don't  you  marry?" 

As  he  rose  to  go  she  took  his  hand  in  hers.  "Have 
you  never,"  she  added  a  little  shyly,  "seen  anyone  you 
fancied?" 

Hood  went  out  into  the  garden  as  ashamed  of  him- 
self as  he  ought  to  have  been  and  never  was  after  cer- 
tain of  his  interviews  with  other  women. 

His  mother  had  always  believed  him  to  be  not  only 
294 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

the  best  of  sons,  which  he  was,  but  the  best  of  men. 

He  had  not  much  sense  of  humor,  but  he  had  enough 
to  know  that  this  pathetic  belief  would  have  been 
hugely  laughable  to  anyone  but  himself. 

Had  he,  Archie  Hood,  never  seen  anyone  he  fancied ! 


LVII 

OH,  yes,"  Jargonelle  said,  her  mouth  full  of  pins, 
"I  shall  marry.  I  mean  to  have  many  chil- 
dren." 

They  were  sitting  in  the  Rectory  garden  in  the  open 
space  beside  the  house,  trying  to  catch  all  the  sun  there 
was,  for  the  day  was  dark  and  rather  chilly. 

It  was  ten  days  since  Hood's  visit,  and  in  her  pocket 
Amy  had  an  unread  letter  from  him.  His  letters  were 
very  frequent,  and  they  were  beautiful  because,  despite 
their  dread  glibness,  they  were  the  expression  of  a  per- 
fectly sincere  feeling. 

There  was  in  the  same  pocket  with  this  last  one  a 
note  from  Yvonne  Cavendish. 

You  are  [the  girl  wrote]  keeping  him  from  me,  and  it  is 
wicked  of  you.  You  thought  he  wasn't  good  enough  for 
you  because  of  me,  but  I'd  think  him  good  enough  for  me 
if  there  were  dozens  like  you. 

As  Jargonelle  declared  in  her  fruity  voice  her  young 
intentions,  Mrs.  Dorset's  mind  was  beset  by  memories 
of  this  letter. 

296 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Another  fragment  ran: 

There's  a  girl  named  Vincent  who  lives  at  Putney — 8 
Wellington  Crescent — that  you  ought  to  know  about.  She's 
a  manicurist. 

And  did  you  ever  hear  of  Mrs.  Keniston?  Or  of  Miss 
Ellaline  de  Courcy?  She's  only  a  chorus  girl,  but  very 
pretty.  He  took  her  to  supper  at  the  Salisbury  Grill  just 
before  I  left  town.  A  gentleman  friend  of  mine  saw  them, 
and  said  he  seemed  awfully  keen. 

Later  the  letter  went  on: 

I  know  you  will  despise  me  for  writing  this,  but  I  can't 
help  it.  I  don't  so  much  mind  about  Mrs.  Keniston  (she's 
an  old  one —  I  mean  an  old  affair)  or  this  De  Courcy  girl. 
They  are  more  like  me.  But  you  are  different  and  some- 
times I  feel  like  I  hated  you.  Only  at  the  same  time  I 
don't,  for  you  were  kind  to  me,  and  not  many  ladies  are 
kind  to  girls  much  younger  than  themselves.  Besides,  he 
doesn't  care  for  you  and  I  in  the  same  way.  Please  don't 
be  angry,  and  I'd  love  to  have  the  coat  and  skirt.  I'm  sure 
it  would  be  nice  because  it's  yours.  Yours  sincerely, 

YVONNE  CAVENDISH. 

The  sun  had  come  out  for  a  moment  and  to  it  the 
young  Jargonelle  turned  up  her  face. 

"Isn't  it  lovely?"  she  murmured,  her  needlework  ly- 
ing disregarded  on  her  knees. 

"What?  Oh,  yes,  the  sun."  But  Amy  reflected  as 
she  spoke  that  her  own  skin  must  not  be  put  to  the 
test  under  which  the  girl's  was  so  beautiful;  she  wore 

297 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

a  shady  hat  with  a  delicate  little  frill  of  tulle  hanging 
from  the  edge  of  the  brim. 

"What  a  pity  it  was,"  Jargonelle  went  on,  after  a 
while,  "that  your  dear  little  girl  died.  What  was 
her  name?" 

Amy  started.  It  was  years  since  she  had  given  a 
thought  to  the  dead  child. 

"Her  name  was  Anne,"  she  answered,  her  voice  sound- 
ing odd  to  her  own  ears,  "Anne  Rose." 

Jargonelle  looked  up  from  her  work,  a  very  sweet 
expression  in  her  eyes.  "For — your  mother  and  Mr. 
Dorset's." 

"Yes,  dear." 

The  sun,  swallowed  by  a  hungry  cloud,  had  disap- 
peared, and  the  leaves  of  the  copper-beech  gave  a  little 
shiver  as  if  it  felt  the  change. 

"Tell  me  about  herT    About  little  Anne  Rose." 

"There  is  not  much  to  tell.  She  was  only  six  months 
old  when  she  died " 

"Oh,  poor  you!" 

Amy  wondered  at  the  motherliness  in  the  girl's  voice ; 
it  was  as  if  she  were  the  elder  and  Amy  the  younger. 

"I  think  I  am  sorrier  for  women  when  their  babies 
die  before  anyone  else  has  ever  taken  care  of  them, — 
while  they  are  still  helpless,  and  belong  absolutely  to 
the  mother,  you  know." 

"Y-yes."  Mrs.  Dorset's  voice  was  doubtful,  but 
298 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Jargonelle,  who  was  again  sewing  busily,  went  on  with- 
out noticing  it. 

"And  yet,  dreadful  as  it  must  have  been,  you  weren't 
so  badly  off  as  a  friend  of  mine  at  Scarborough." 

"No?     Why  not,  dear?" 

"Well,  you  see,  her  husband — such  a  dear  he  was — 
died  a  month  before  Barbara  was  born,  so  when  Bar- 
bara died  poor  Lil  was  quite  alone." 

"Poor  thing." 

"Yes.     You  of  course  had  Mr.  Dorset." 

Filbasket,  passing  with  a  wheelbarrow,  stopped  at 
this  juncture  to  air  his  opinion — a  very  mean  one — 
of  the  weather,  and  when  he  had  gone  Jargonelle  asked 
suddenly:  "Will  you  show  me  their  pictures?"  She 
bore  a  rather  breathless  aspect  as  though  she  were 
asking  for  admission  into  a  Holy  of  Holies. 

Amy  Dorset  bent  over  and  picked  up  a  little 
green  apple.  Her  face  was  red,  and  she  wished  to  hide 
its  flush. 

"I — I'm  afraid  I  can't,"  she  said,  awkwardly.  "You 
see,  the  baby  was  never  photographed, — I  was  ill  for 
months  after  she  was  born,  and — Mr.  Dorset  hates  be- 
ing taken." 

Jargonelle's  eyes  opened  very  wide. 

"You  haven't  got  any?" 

"No,  dear.    I — I  am  very  sorry "  she  spoke  with 

a  queer  feeling  of  humility,  and  rose. 

299 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"I  think  I  must  go  now,"  she  said,  "I  have  letters  to 
write " 

"I'll  come  with  you  to  the  gate  then."  Pitching  her 
needlework  onto  the  grass,  the  girl  laid  her  arm  across 
Amy's  shoulders,  in  an  affectionate  rather  uncomfort- 
able way  she  had,  and  they  made  their  way  across  the 
now  sunny  garden. 

"Tell  me  about  him,  Mrs.  Dorset  darling,  do!" 

"About  whom?" 

"About  Mr.  Dorset,  of  course.     Is  he  handsome?" 

"No — no,  he's  not  handsome.  He's  tall,  and — and 
very  mc^-looking." 

The  girl  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  deranging  her 
hat. 

"How  he  must  adore  you,"  she  murmured. 

Amy  laughed  a  little  shrilly.     "Why?" 

"Why,  because  you  are  so  beautiful,  and  such  an 
angel." 

"And  you  are  a  goose  of  a  girl !  I  am  not  an  angel 
at  all " 

At  the  white  gate  they  parted,  and  Amy  walked  on 
slowly.  She  was  not  happy,  and  although  the  letter 
from  the  Cavendish  girl  had  not  exactly  convinced  her 
of  any  fresh  misconduct  on  Hood's  part,  yet  the  very 
fact  that  he  was  a  man  of  whom  such  things  could 
be  said  was  disturbing.  She  knew  that  decent  men 
could  no  more  be  accused  of  such  indiscriminate 

300 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

wantonness  than  of  robbing  every  bank  they  passed. 

Mrs.  Jessie  Keel  was  underbred  and  jealous  and 
spiteful;  she  had  no  doubt  made  the  most  out  of  com- 
paratively innocent  facts. 

"As  if  a  man  couldn't  be  manicured  without — flirting 
with  the  girl,"  she  told  herself.  But  at  the  same  time 
she  knew  that  Hood's  manicurist  was  more  than  likely 
to  be  one  of  those  with  whom  their  clients  do  flirt. 

As  to  the  other  women  mentioned,  she  reflected  bit- 
terly, even  he  must  know  a  few  women  to  whom  he  did 
not  make  love! 

She  passed  her  own  gate,  and  though  the  sun  had 
now  escaped  from  the  belly  of  the  whale  that  had  swal- 
lowed him  and  was  blazing  fiercely  down  on  the  dusty 
road,  her  little  figure  went  on  over  the  bridge  and  off 
to  the  left  up  the  path  towards  the  fountain. 


Lvm 

THE  fountain  at  that  hour  of  the  morning  lay  irii 
the  shadow  of  a  gnarled  and  half-ruined  oak  that 
grew  at  the  edge  of  the  little  terrace. 

Amy  sat  down  by  it  and  taking  off  her  hat  dabbecl 
gingerly  at  her  face  with  her  handkerchief. 

The  walk  up  had  been  very  hot,  and  she  was  tired. 
Jargonelle's  ridiculous  chatter  had  disturbed  her,  and 
she  wished  she  had  not  let  the  girl  talk. 

Probably,  of  the  losses  that  women  in  growing  older 
inevitably  experience,  none  is  sadder  than  that  of 
ignorance,  the  beautiful  ignorance  of  youth;  and  Amy 
Dorset  now  realized  this  for  the  first  time. 

She  wished  that  she  still  believed  in  the  comfort  of 
husbands,  in  the  holy  grief  for  dead  children. 

Her  baby,  so  long  dead,  had  for  years  been  as  unreal 
to  her  as  the  child  of  one  of  the  Pharaohs.  For  thou- 
sands of  days  she  had  never  given  the  little  creature  a 
thought. 

And  now  in  the  cool  shadow,  the  sound  of  the  gentle 
fountain  sweet  in  her  ears,  she  remembered  it. 

She  remembered  the  reddish  down  on  its  head;  the 
302 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

milky  blue  of  its  eyes;  the  first  whinnying,  nickering 
cry  of  it,  when  it  was  born.  And  she  remembered 
Clow's  face  as  he  had  looked  when  he  first  saw  it. 

One  of  the  tag-ends  of  poetry  with  which  she  but- 
tressed her  funny  little  conception  of  herself  as  a  liter- 
ary woman,  was  a  scrap  from  Browning. 

God  be  praised,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 
Boasts  two  soul-sides;  one  to  face  the  world  with, 
One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her. 

This  occurred  to  her  now,  and  she  found  herself  won- 
dering whether  her  husband  had  ever  loved  her. 

He  had  always  been  kind  and  good  and  trustworthy, 
but — she  decided  with  a  little  angry  toss  of  the  head — 
trustworthiness  was  easily  compatible  with  dullness. 
Clow  had  no  temptations  such  as  beset,  for  instance, 
poor  Archie.  No,  surely  Clow  had  never  loved  her. 
He  had  never  even  said  that  he  could  not  live  without 
her. 

He  had  cried  once,  she  remembered,  but  the  tears 
hadn't  been  for  her.  It  was  on  that  dull  October  day 
when  the  little  Anne  Rose  was  buried. 

She  remembered  the  churchyard  at  Ambles,  the  sound 
of  the  parson's  voice — he  had  adenoids — and  the  chill 
rain  that  fell. 

And  Clow  had  cried.  .  .  . 

A  bird,  sitting  on  the  mossy  brim  of  the  fountain, 
303 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

looked  at  her  with  his  head  on  one  side,  almost  as  if 
it  winked.  A  nasty,  little,  common  brown  bird !  Then 
he  dipped  across  the  pool,  skimming  the  surface,  and 
returning  to  dry  land,  shook  his  wet  feathers  and 
rearranged  them. 

From  the  little  velvet  bag  that  never  left  her  except 
when  exchanged  for  a  more  beautiful  one,  Mrs.  Dorset 
took  a  folding  glass  and  looked  at  herself.  Her  face 
was  red  and  damp  and  worn-out  looking.  She  dabbed 
it  with  powder,  but  the  powder  made  things  worse  and 
she  wiped  it  off. 

With  it  came  souvenirs  of  black  eyebrows,  rose- 
colored  cheeks,  and  cherry  lips. 

"Oh,  how  beastly!" 

The  bird,  thoroughly  refreshed,  flew  to  a  broken 
branch  of  the  ancient  oak,  and  being  of  an  inquisitive 
nature,  sat  and  watched  his  companion. 

This  is  what  he  saw. 

First  she  drew  her  hair  back  from  her  brow;  then 
she  unbuttoned  her  sleeves  and  rolled  them  up  to  her 
elbows ;  then  she  unfastened  the  low  collar  of  her  gown 
and  tucked  in  the  frill. 

Then,  with  a  stealthy  look  all  round  her  as  if,  the 
bird  thought,  she  suspected  the  neighborhood  of  a  cat, 
she  moved  to  the  fountain  and  knelt,  both  hands  on  the 
brink  of  it. 

After  staring  at  herself  in  the  brown  mirror,  she 
304 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

gave  an  odd  little  laugh,  and  leaning  over,  dipped  her 
face  in  the  water. 

She  spluttered,  snorted,  tossed  her  head  and  dipped 
again.  Then  she  plunged  her  arms  into  the  cool  depths 
and  rubbed  her  screwed-up  face  with  her  little  hands 
on  which  were  things  that  glittered  .  .  . 

"Amy!" 

"Lawrence !" 

"My  darling  little  child,  what  on  earth  are  you  do- 
ing?" Miss  Croxley,  dusty  and  travel  worn,  yellow 
and  grimy  with  the  yellowness  and  griminess  of  women 
who  never  flush,  stared  down. 

Mrs.  Dorset,  her  face  mottled  and  damp,  a  lock  of 
dank  hair  on  one  shoulder,  stared  up. 

"Did  you  never,"  Amy  asked  finally,  with  a  touch 
of  asperity,  "see  anyone  wash  her  face  before?" 

At  this,  Miss  Croxley  burst  into  a  cheer  of  laughter, 
and  coming  round,  knelt,  and  kissed  the  wet  face  in 
question. 

"O  you  darling,"  she  cried.  "What  a  duck  you  are ! 
I  always  said  you  were  a  duck,  and  here  I  find  vou  at 
your  secret  aquatics !" 

"Idiot.  But — I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  Lawrence. 
Lend  me  your  hank,  will  you,  mine  is  a  wreck." 

Lawrence  produced  hers,  and  when  Mrs.  Dorset's 
little  face  was  dry,  the  conversation  went  on. 

305 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Who  told  you  where  I  was?" 

"Clow.     He  said  I  must  come — or  he  would." 

"O  Lawrence,  why  should  he?" 

"Because,  dear,  he  is  your  husband." 

"Pooh !     As  if  that  mattered,  nowadays  " 

Miss  Croxley  laughed.  "You  are  a  gump,  Tannie! 
However,  here  I  am.  I  am  to  find  out  all  about  you 
and  report  to  him  tonight." 

"Tonight?     Where?     At  Maiden  Aqualate?" 

"No,  dear,  at  875." 

Amy  stared.    "But  why — in  mid- August?" 

Lawrence  Croxley  paused  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  beautiful  panorama  stretched  before  them.  It 
was  a  pause,  not  a  hesitation. 

Finally,  she  spoke.  "I  could  not  go  to  Maiden 
Aqualate,  where  he  is  living  alone,"  she  said,  "so 
he  is  coming  up  to  town  to  see  me  and  learn  about 
you." 

"Oh!" 

"Yes."  She  took  her  old-fashioned  gold  watch  from 
her  belt,  and  looked  at  it.  "Amy,  it's  twelve.  My 
train  goes  at  two.  You'll  give  me  some  lunch,  I  know, 
and  before  lunch,  will  you  tell  me  what  I  am  to  tell — 
your  husband?" 

The  sun  had  crept  past  the  oak-tree,  and  Amy's 
little  face  was  deluged  with  its  light. 

Lashless,  eyebrowless,  pink,  instead  of  crimson- 
306 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

lipped,   she   sat  there,   her   hands   clasped   round  her 
raised  knees. 

And  she  was  silent. 

After  a  time  Miss  Croxley  spoke  again. 

"Amy,  what  about  Captain  Hood?  Have  you  seen 
him?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  dearest,  won't  you  tell  me?" 

"Tell  you  what?" 

"Have  you — are  you — do  you  still — care  for  him?" 

"Yes!"  Mrs.  Dorset's  answer  rang  out,  harsh  and 
defiant.  "Of  course  I  do !" 

A  little  sunny  silence  fell,  and  in  it  the  burbling  of 
the  fountain  seemed  only  a  further,  more  velvety  still- 
ness. 

"I  am  sorry,  Amy." 

"Why?" 

"Because — I  wrote  you,  dear,  that  I  knew." 

Amy  took  from  her  bag  the  golden  pencil,  and  lick- 
ing its  red  tip  with  a  tongue  nearly  as  red,  passed  it 
over  her  pretty  lips  with  the  nonchalance  of  long  prac- 
tice. 

"Well,  what  do  you  know?"  she  asked,  defiantly. 

"About — those  women." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  during  which  a  spot  of 
blue  seemed  to  drop  from  the  sky  into  the  now  quite 
unshaded  pool. 

307 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Mrs.  Dorset  shut  her  bag  with  a  snap. 

"Listen,  Lawrence,"  she  said,  putting  on  her  hat, 
"you  mustn't  say  a  word  against  Archie.  He  has  been 
here  and — and — explained.  I  was  very  hard  on  him 
before,  and  very  silly  to  be  so  upset.  Men  like  him," 
she  added,  "can't  be  like  men  like — my  husband." 

She  rose,  and  Miss  Croxley  did  the  same. 

Lawrence's  hollow  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  but  they 
were  angry  tears,  and  her  voice  shook  with  tension 
as  she  answered.  "No,  Amy,  you  are  quite  right.  Men 
like  Captain  Hood  cannot  be  like  Cloudesley  Dorset." 

Amy  turned,  her  unshaded  eyes  a  light  gray,  slightly 
pink  at  the  edges.  "Don't  be  cross,  dear,"  she  mur- 
mured. 

"I  am  not  cross."  There  was  no  artificial  sweetness 
about  the  woman  who  loved  Cloudesley  Dorset.  "And 
I  will  not  stay  for  lunch.  What  am  I  to  tell — your 
husband?" 

"You  really  won't  stay?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

"Very  well.  There  is  a  train  at  one-five.  You  can 
just  catch  it.  As  to  Clow — O  Lawrence,  remember,  you 
told  me  you  cared.  Be  good  to  him.  He — he  is  really 
such  a  dear ! — And  I  believe  you  can  make  him  happy. 
I  am  going  to  marry — the — the  man  I  love.  If  Clow 
ever  asks  you  to  marry  him" — her  voice  was  very  sweet, 
her  eyes  kind, — "do  it,  dear.  He's — the  best  man  in 

308 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

the  world,  and  will  make  you  happy.  If  he  ever  asks 
you,  remember ' 

Lawrence  Croxley  drew  her  deerskin  gloves  taut  at 
the  wrists. 

"He  has  asked  me,"  she  said  proudly. 

Then  she  walked  down  the  hill  without  looking  back. 


LIX 

THINGS  that  happen  only  in  novels  are  too  fre- 
quent in  real  life  to  need  any  explanation.  When, 
on  the  rustic  bridge  over  the  thread  of  brown 
water  just  at  the  edge  of  the  village,  the  Rector  met 
a  remarkably  handsome  man  who  looked  as  if  he  were 
a  beautiful  dream  of  Velasquez,  it  was  of  course  Archie 
Hood. 

"A  fine  day,"  said  Mr.  Bullace. 

"Delightful." 

"I  take  it  that  you  are  going  up  to  the  ruins  ?" 

"I  am." 

There  was  a  pause  and  then  the  old  man  remarked 
with  a  fine  air  of  casualness,  "Would  you  like  a  Bishop's 
Thumb?" 

"  'A  Bishop's' " 

"Thumb.    Exactly.    As  you  see,  it's  a  pear." 

Hood  stared  helplessly  at  the  fine  specimen  held 
out  to  him.  "An  odd  name,"  he  murmured;  "no, 
thanks,  I  don't  care  for  fruit " 

The  Rector,  his  large  person  completely  filling  the 
space  between  the  two  handrails,  smiled  at  him. 

310 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"You  are  wrong.  Fruit  is  good.  You  of  course  re- 
member Tusser?" 

"No,  I  don't  remember  Tusser,  sir,  and — as  I  am 
rather  in  a  hurry " 

Hood  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  old  man's  insanity, 
and  his  voice  was  persuasive,  but  vainly  so. 

"Tusser,"  Mr.  Bullace  thundered,  one  hand  on  either 
rail,  "was  remarkably  fond  of  strawberries.  'Wife,  into 
the  garden,  and  set  me  a  plot  with  strawberry-roots,  of 
the  best  to  be  got.  Such,  growing  abroad  amongst 
thorns  in  the  wood,  well-chosen  and  picked,  form  ex- 
cellent food!'  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

Hood  laughed.  "Delightful,  sir,"  he  answered  with 
the  high  courtesy  that  distinguished  him,  "but  I  fear 
I  must  go  on " 

Then  Augustine  Clement  Bullace  lied. 

"You  will  not  find  Mrs.  Dorset  in  the  ruins,"  he  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  she  is  not  there." 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken.    Her  maid  told  me " 

The  old  man  wagged  a  big  forefinger  at  him.  "Her 
maid,"  he  declared  with  untruthful  truth,  "did  not  see 
her  start  off  to  Brighton  in  a  motor-car  with  some 
friends " 

Hood  looked  up  the  sunny  dusty  road,  and  then  into 
the  old  man's  candid  eyes. 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  have  missed  her,  but — it  can't 
311 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

be  helped.  Brighton  lies  in  my  way,  perhaps  I  may  be 
fortunate  enough  to  meet  her " 

They  shook  hands  and  the  younger  man  left  the  old 
one  on  the  little  bridge. 

And  the  old  man,  despite  his  holy  office,  was  filled 
with  glee  and  something  like  pride  over  his  successful 
lie. 


O  XT 

CHER  MONSIEUR, 

Je  vous  remercie  pour  votre  charmante  lettre.  Je  suis 
tres  bien,  et  je  m'amuse  assez.  J'aimerais  beaucoup  con- 
naitre  votre  amie  Madame  Samain,  mais  je  crains  que  c'est 
impossible  pour  le  present.  Quant  a  M.  H. — je  1'ai  vu  et 
je  crois  que  je  lui  ai  fait  tort.  Je  1'aime  beaucoup,  et 
j'etais  tres  in  juste.  Mon  mari  est  tres,  tres  bon,  et  tout 
ira  bien,  je  suis  sure.  Vous  etiez  si  bon  avec  moi,  je  n'oubli- 
erai  jamais.  Je  suis  sure  que  vous  serez  heureux  de  savoir 
que  je  suis  tres  heureuse. 

Miss  Croxley  etait  ici  hier  et  j'ai  dit  a  elle  combien  je 
suis  heureuse. 

Agreez,  cher  Monsieur,  les  assurances  de  ma  parfaite 

consideration. 

AMY  DORSET. 

_,  Friday,  Vittel. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  found  my  poor  brother  so  much  better  that  I  feel  re- 
warded for  my  sacrifice  in  leaving  you.  I  enclose  my  dear 
little  Undine's  letter.  She  thinks  it  is  written  in  French. 
Can  you  read  it?  Isn't  it  odd?  However,  in  case  you 
can't  read  it,  it  means  simply  that  she's  well  and  happy 
(which  is  not  true).  Dearest,  I  shall  be  back  with  you  and 
our  dear  Henri  in  three  days'  time.  Until  then,  my  happi- 
ness lies,  as  always,  in  your  thin,  exquisite  hands. 

Thy  T 

JULES. 


LXI 

THEN  happened  four  days  of  the  most  perfect 
weather.    Days  golden  and  warm  with  blue  dis- 
tances and  a  turquoise  bowl  for  a  sky. 
Time  seemed  to  stand  still. 

Amy  Dorset  could  never  remember  any  one  thing 
she  had  done  during  those  mellow  hours.  She  ate  and 
slept  and  was  in  the  sun — that  was  all. 

At  the  end  of  this  period,  in  which  she  seemed  to 
be  like  a  ripening  seed,  there  were  two  happenings. 
The  first  was  a  letter  from  Dorset  to  his  wife. 

DEAR  AMY  [it  ran], 

Lawrence  has  told  me  of  seeing  you,  and  that  you  had 
seen  H.  As  I  told  you,  I  am  quite  willing  to  do  anything 
for  your  happiness,  and  I  know  the  folly  of  speaking 
against  a  man  to  a  woman  who  cares  for  him.  Only — be 
quite  sure,  not  only  of  yourself,  but  of  him.  I  have  just 
met  a  very  nice  man  who  has  known  him  for  years,  and  who 
likes  him  immensely.  I  should  say  that  Hood  is  a  very  de- 
cent chap  with  men.  But  I  have  grave  doubts  of  his  ever 
being  a  good  husband.  Think  it  over  well,  my  dear.  And 
then  send  him  to  see  me.  He  and  I  must  have  a  talk.  I 
hope  you  will  soon  come  to  Maiden  Aqualate. 

Believe  me  to  be  yours  affectionately, 

CLOUDESLEY  DORSET. 

314 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

This  note  reached  Dove  Cottage  one  evening  when 
Amy  was  finishing  her  dinner  on  the  Venetian  balcony. 
The  pleasant,  fading  light  fell  full  on  her  face  as  she 
read,  and  rested  on  it  while  she  sat,  her  hands  on  the 
table  edge,  reflecting.  She  looked  odd  and  unlike  her- 
self, because  she  was  completely  and  undisguisedly  her- 
self. 

There  was  no  black  stuff  on  her  eyelashes,  no  paint 
on  her  cheeks,  and  her  little  nose  even  had  a  faint 
gleam,  because  of  its  lack  of  powder. 

The  letter  was,  she  thought,  very  like  Clow,  grave 
and  kind,  and — nice. 

Tomorrow  she  would  answer  it.  In  the  meantime,  she 
would  walk  down  to  the  post  office  and  wire  Archie  to 
go  and  see  her  husband.  Archie  had  written  of  his 
abortive  visit  to  Bird's  Fountain,  and  she  had  wished 
to  ask  the  Rector  why  he  had  sent  her  guest  away. 
She  had  been  very  angry  with  the  Rector,  but — some- 
how she  had  not  dared  to  question  him. 

She  had  grown  very  fond  of  the  old  man,  but  she 
was  in  an  odd  way  afraid  of  him.  There  were,  she 
felt,  things  in  his  mind  which  could  not  come  out  of 
his  mouth  without  hurting  her. 

So  when  he  first  met  her  after  the  episode  of  the 
meeting  on  the  bridge  and  looked  at  her  sharply  as  if 
waiting  for  something,  she  had  only  asked  him  with 
innocent  eyes,  if  she  didn't  look  funny  with  fair  lashes. 

315 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

His  answer  was  to  cup  her  little  face  in  his  huge 
hands  and  give  her  a  loud  kiss.  "That's  what  I  think," 
he  said. 

As  she  walked  down  the  road  to  send  the  wire  she 
saw  Mr.  Bullace  climbing  the  steep  bit  of  ground  just 
beyond  the  bridge. 

She  did  not  wish  to  meet  him  for  some  reason  which 
she  did  not  even  try  to  define,  so  she  drew  aside  just 
within  an  open  gate  to  let  him  pass. 

The  west  was  behind  him  and  his  white  hair  seemed 
to  have  caught  a  little  of  its  rosy  light.  He  ambled 
along,  flinging  his  great  limbs  about,  waving  his  stick, 
turning  his  face  up  to  the  sky  and  then  from  side 
to  side  in  the  way  habitual  to  him.  She  remembered 
his  once  having  said  to  her  that  he  never  ceased  trying 
to  see  all  he  could  of  the  world  and  that  he  had  been 
allowed  to  see  a  great  deal.  This  from  an  octogenarian 
whose  travels  consisted  of  a  journey  to  Switzerland  and 
another  half  a  century  before  to  Rome  and  Florence, 
had  struck  Amy's  developing  sense  of  understanding  as 
very  remarkable. 

Yet  now,  as  she  stood  behind  the  hedge  and  watched 
a  sudden  pounce  of  his  to  the  grass  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road,  she  saw  what  he  meant. 

The  small  dusty  flower  that  he  picked,  and  looked 
at  in  triumph,  would  have  been  passed  unseen  by  ninety- 
nine  people  out  of  every  hundred. 

316 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

Mr.  Bullace  had  been  allowed  to  see  a  great  deal  of 
the  world  he  so  splendidly  enjoyed.  When  he  had  dis- 
appeared, Mrs.  Dorset  went  her  way  to  the  cottage 
telegraph  office. 

The  pen  like  a  pin  had  been  replaced  by  a  new  one 
that  blotted  and  blurred  as  it  wrote,  so  two  forms  had 
to  be  torn  up  before  a  decently  legible  message  was 
achieved. 

It  was  addressed  to  London,  for  Hood  was,  she  knew, 
there  on  business,  and  it  ran: 

Delightful  letter  from  Cloudesley.  He  wishes  see  you 
Maiden  Aqualate.  AMY. 

She  wished  to  put  in  her  love  but  dared  not,  seized 
by  the  miniature  prudence  of  some  very  daring  women. 

She  was  signing  her  name  when  Jargonelle  came 
tearing  in.  "O  Mrs.  Dorset,  do  come.  Veales'  hay- 
rick is  on  fire!  Hurry,  you  must  see  it.  Oh — you're 
sending  a  telegram.  How  splendid.  I  love  telegrams." 

Amy  folded  the  form  and  handed  it  to  the  old  post 
mistress.  She  wished  the  girl  had  not  come.  Hood 
and  Jargonelle  belonged  to  two  such  different  phases 
of  her  life  that  she  did  not  wish  them  to  meet,  even  on 
a  telegraph  form,  until  she  was  married. 

Into  the  deepening  dusk  Jargonelle  rushed  her,  up 
the  cobbled  street,  past  the  church,  and  down  a  long 
lane. 

317 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Poor  Veale — isn't  it  a  pity?  Such  a  perfectly 
gorgeous  rick  too,  worth  thirty  pounds,  Julia  says. 
Oh,  there  goes  the  engine.  Do  look  at  Weddle,  isn't  he 
too  funny?" 

The  old-fashioned  fire-engine  roared  past  them,  Wed- 
dle, the  butcher,  driving,  his  jaws  set,  his  staring  blue 
eyes  blazing  with  pride.  In  his  own  imagination  he 
was  for  the  moment  not  a  butcher;  he  was  a  hero,  a 
man  who  took  his  life  in  his  hands,  not  altogether,  pos- 
sibly, guiltless  of  piracy — rather  confused,  Weddle,  but 
gloriously  proud  of  himself. 

Jargonelle  broke  into  a  run  and  raced  down  the 
steep  lane,  in  clamorous  company  of  half  the  village. 

A  rick  fire  was  beyond  a  doubt  catastrophic,  but  it 
was  also  a  social  event.  On  reaching  the  hollow  where 
the  little  farm  was  situated,  a  hush  fell  on  those  who 
had  come  to  see. 

It  was  night  down  here,  though  day  still  lingered  on 
the  downs,  and  the  blazing  mound  was  a  wonderful 
sight.  For,  in  truth,  dry  hay  or  straw  burns  more 
beautifully  than  almost  anything  else;  it  goes  with  a 
rustle,  a  sparkiness,  a  lack  of  smoke  that  makes  it 
almost  a  firework  display.  Against  the  darkness  the 
separate  strands  and  twists  turned  like  worms  of  fire, 
and  sprays  of  sparks  flecked  the  gathering  blackness. 

The  engine  had  arrived  too  late,  the  fire  had  too  good 
f\  hold,  and  the  spectators,  including  Weddle  himselfx 

318 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

stood  fatalistically  watching  the  picturesque  destruc- 
tion of  thirty  pounds.  Veale,  who  was  a  poor  man 
with  a  large  family,  stood  leaning  on  the  rick-yard 
gate.  He  was  a  plain  man  with  a  broken  nose.  Amy 
was  near  him,  and  in  the  midst  of  her  fastidious 
thought  "Oh,  what  a  hideous  old  thing,"  came  an- 
other. He  had  tears  in  his  eyes  and  she  saw  them. 
"Oh,  how  dreadful  it  is,"  she  thought. 

She  also  saw  that  his  wife  stood  by  him,  her  long 
nose  red  and  shining  with  tears. 

"Poor  man,"  Jargonelle  said  softly,  "it  will  make 
them  poor  the  whole  winter." 

After  a  moment  Amy  went  quietly  up  to  Mrs.  Veale, 
and  laid  her  hand  on  her  arm. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said,  a  new  timidity  veiling  her 
voice. 

The  woman  turned.  "Thank  you,"  she  answered, 
drearily,  "it's  hard  on  'im." 

That  was  all,  but  her  very  lack  of  emphasis  was  strik- 
ing. She  thought,  this  plain  mother  of  a  swarm  of 
plain  children,  only  of  him;  the  world  held  for  her  only 
one  "him." 

When  the  Rector's  figure  suddenly  appeared  on  the 
brow  of  the  downs  just  above  the  little  group  of  neigh- 
bors, a  murmur  of  pleasure  went  round. 

Everyone  was  glad  to  see  the  old  man  whose  gigantic 
shadow  danced  down  behind  him.  Amy  knew  that  he 

319 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

could  be  of  very  little  material  use  to  the  unfortunate 
farmer,  but  she  felt  the  illimitable  comfort  he  was 
nevertheless  bringing. 

When  he  had  shaken  hands  with  the  Veales,  and 
talked  to  them,  Amy  slipped  her  hand  into  his  arm. 
"Rector!" 

"Bless  my  soul,"  he  rumbled  in  his  deepest  voice. 
"So  this  is  where  you  were.  I  went  up  to  see  you  but 
you  were  out " 

For  a  wild  second  she  had  to  bite  her  lips  to  keep 
from  telling  him  that  she  had  hidden  behind  the  hedge 
to  avoid  him.  It  seemed  all  of  a  sudden  to  be  almost 
a  crime  to  have  let  him  take  the  walk  for  nothing,  to 
have  met  his  kindly  intent  of  seeing  her,  with  evasion. 

"Rector,"  she  said,  drawing  him  aside  a  little,  "I 
want — to  give  that  poor  man  thirty  pounds." 

"Whom?" 

"The  farmer — Veale.  Someone  said  he  loses  thirty 
pounds  by  this  fire  and — I  am  rich,  you  know." 

He  smiled.  "It  is  kind  of  you,  my  dear,  and — you 
shall,  only  don't  say  anything  about  it  now.  They  are 
proud  people " 

Night  had  come  at  last,  and  the  fire  had  died  down 
to  a  smoldering  heap.  The  villagers  were  talking  again, 
as  people  do  after  a  funeral. 

A  star  stood,  apparently,  on  the  topmost  bough 
of  an  elm  in  the  lane,  and  a  cow  lowed  in  the  byre. 

320 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"You  two  girls,"  the  Rector  said,  "had  better  go 
home  and  I'll  come  after  I've  told  Veale.  Go  to  the 
Rectory,  Amy,  will  you?  There's  some  excellent  cold 
beef  for  supper " 

He  had  never  called  her  Amy  before,  and  she  felt  that 
his  so  doing  meant,  despite  his  patent  unconsciousness 
of  it,  a  great  deal. 

The  peace  of  the  untrammeled  evening  dropped 
gently  into  her  heart.  She  was  very  happy. 


LXII 

MY  DARLING, 

No,  I  can't  go  to  Maiden  Aqualate.  It  would  be  a  ridicu- 
lous thing  to  do.  Your  husband  can't  really  wish  to  see  me. 
You  are  so  sweet  that  you  want  everybody  to  be  friends, 
but  he  and  I  never  could.  What  do  you  mean,  that  he  will 
do  everything  for  us  ? 

Beloved,  let  the  unborn  future  bring  forth  what  it  will, 
as  that  poet  chap  said.  I  want  you.  I  adore  you.  I  wor- 
ship you.  You  must  keep  your  promise  and  come  with 
me  to  my  little  house  on  Dartmoor.  Husbands  don't  exist, 
nor  friends.  Just  you  and  me  together  up  there.  Trust 
me  to  make  my  little  sweetheart  happy.  .  .  .  Later  your 
husband  will  see  that  nobody  but  I  can  make  you  happy. 
If  he  chooses  to  let  you  divorce  him,  then — I  shall  be  the 
happiest  man  on  earth.  But  in  any  case  come  with  me  on 
Saturday.  I'll  meet  you  at  Paddington  whenever  you  say — 
.  .  .  You  have  been  odd  with  me  of  late,  your  letters  are 
short,  your  wires  so  stiff.  I  am  frightened.  Surely  you 
haven't  ceased  loving  me?  O  my  darling,  you  are  the  only 
woman  on  earth  for  me.  I  think  of  you  by  day,  and  dream 
of  you  by  night.  You  are  mine,  and  I  am  yours.  Send  me 
a  wire  about  Saturday.  Just  the  hour  when  I  am  to  meet 
you  at  Paddington.  I'll  reserve  compartment.  O,  mip 
love.  .  .  . 

Archie  Hood  was  perfectly  sincere  in  writing  this  let- 
ter. He  loved  Amy  and  longed  for  her,  but  he  loved 

322 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

and  longed  more  than  he  would  have  done  had  her  loving 
and  longing  for  him  showed  no  signs  of  waning. 

He  was  well  used  to  signs  of  waning,  but  they  were 
always  on  his  side,  and  this  new  juxtaposition  amazed 
him. 

He  grew  fretful  and  worried,  and  his  mother  asked 
him  why. 

"Nothing,  Adelaide  dearest,"  he  said,  with  the  charm- 
ing gayety  he  always  had  for  her. 

"But — something  distresses  you." 

"No.    I've  rather  a  bad  head— that's  all." 

And  the  wise  old  woman  pretended  to  believe  him. 

He  waited  two  days  for  Amy's  answer  to  his  letter, 
and  when  it  came  he  took  it  to  his  own  room  to  read. 

It  was  very  short. 

Dearest,  of  course  I  love  you.  And  I'll  come  on  Saturday, 
although  I'd  rather  have  gone  to  Maiden  Aqualate.  He  mill 
let  me  divorce  him,  beloved,  he's  so  good  and  kind.  I  fear 
I  haven't  been  a  very  good  wife  to  him,  but  then,  he  doesn't 
care,  so  I  needn't  worry  about  it.  I  reach  town  at  twelve- 
one  and  shall  be  at  Paddington  at  two.  Oh,  I  shall  be  so 
glad  to  see  you.  I  have  not  been  very  happy  here.  It's  the 
wrong  place  for  me.  I  don't  seem  to  belong  here.  I  ought 
never  to  have  stayed.  I  think  I  must  be  awfully  bored.  All 
my  love  to  you,  my  love.  Your  own 

AMY. 

That  afternoon  Hood  rode  over  to  a  neighboring 
fiouse  to  tea.  His  hostess,  a  very  pretty  woman  with 

823 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

two  half-grown  girls  and  a  vacant  heart,  flirted  with 
him  over  the  tea-table,  which  stood  in  a  yew  arbor. 

She  admired  him  immensely,  and  showed  it ;  she  knew 
his  record  as  a  polo-player  and  rhapsodized  over  it ;  she 
remembered  his  steeplechasing  days. 

In  a  word  she  was  what  he  called,  to  himself,  a  sen- 
sible, appreciative  woman. 

When  she  told  him  how  tiresome  her  husband  was, 
and  that  she  was  lonely,  he  kissed  her. 

This,  to  do  him  justice,  seemed  to  him  the  only  pos- 
sible thing  under  the  circumstances,  and  when  she  clung 
to  him,  murmuring  that  she  had  always  cared  for  him, 
he  too,  murmured,  by  no  means  repudiating  her  infer- 
ence that  he  had  cherished  a  certain  feeling  for  her. 

Autumnal  ardors  had  always  rather  appealed  to  him. 

And  yet  his  telegraphic  reply  to  Amy  Dorset  wav 
couched  in  words  so  fiery  that  she,  passing  the  old 
post  mistress  an  hour  after  receipt,  felt  her  face  burn, 

And  Saturday  was  only  three  days  off. 


LXIII 

OLD  Mrs.  Hood  died  "as  happy  as  a  bird"  on  the 
Friday.  It  was  at  tea-time  that  she  died,  and 
toast  and  cakes  and  jam  were  on  the  table. 
Soft  rain  blurred  the  windows,  a  little  fire  sputtered 
pleasantly  on  the  hearth,  and  the  old  lady  and  her  son 
had  been  quite  alone  until  the  quiet  entrance  of  the 
unbidden  guest. 

They  had  had  a  very  happy  day.  Archie  had  told 
his  dear  Adelaide  of  his  departure  on  Saturday  for  a 
few  days,  and  she  had  rallied  him  about  some  not  im- 
possible young  maid  whom  he  might  be  going  to  see. 

"I  believe,"  she  said,  "that  your  hard  heart  is  touched 
at  last." 

"Come,  come,  Adelaide !" 

"But  I  do.  You  are  different  since  yesterday.  Hap- 
pier— more  like  my  old  little  boy." 

He  felt  a  pang  of  remorse. 

"Am  I,  dear?" 

"Yes.    Some  more  tea,  dearest?" 

They  were  her  last  words,  and  they  were  very  charac- 
teristic. All  her  life  she  had  been  trying  to  make  people 

325 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

comfortable,  and  now  she  died  with  the  homely  invita- 
tion on  her  lips. 

When  he  finally  saw  that  no  remedies  could  avail  to 
stir  her  stilled  heart,  her  son  gathered  her  to  his  breast 
and  carried  her  up  to  her  bed. 

"Leave  us  alone,"  he  said,  and  the  frightened  servants 
obeyed. 

They  closed  the  door  on  the  kind,  loving,  lying,  selfish, 
generous,  untrustworthy  man  and  the  woman  whom,  in 
spite  of  the  evidence  of  his  life,  he  had  loved  the  best 
of  all. 


LXIV 

SOME  days  after  receiving  the  news  of  Mrs.  Hood?s 
death,  Amy  Dorset  awoke  to  a  new  fact.  Sum- 
mer had  gone. 

Technically  it  was  still  in  Sussex,  but  in  reality  au- 
tumn had  dragged  it  too  soon  away. 

Rains  fell.  Heavy,  dull,  soaking  rains  that  beat  down 
the  grass,  destroyed  the  roses  and  made  a  torrent  of  the 
road  to  the  village. 

And  Dove  Cottage,  isolated  by  the  downpour,  became 
a  little  bit  of  eternity.  The  days  did  not  seem  to  go; 
a  week  seemed  one  gray,  cozy  space  of  undivided  hours. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  Amy  Dorset  was  alone 
for  a  week.  Even  the  Rector  did  not  come,  for  he  was 
in  bed  with  a  bronchial  cold,  and  Jargonelle's  nursing 
duties  kept  her  away. 

Solitude  seemed  to  fall  about  the  little  house  with  the 
rain,  to  wrap  it  round  like  the  mists  that,  although  it 
was  only  early  in  September,  had  slowly  begun  to  veil 
the  downs  at  dawn  and  dusk. 

Summer  had  gone. 

Mrs.  Dorset  sat  by  herself  in  the  pretty  drawing- 
327 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

room,  growing  intimate  with  all  its  treasures.  One  day, 
in  a  delightful  rosewood  cabinet  of  no  earthly  period, 
she  came  across  a  thing  that  gave  to  her  the  faerie 
feeling  that  is  the  basis  of  children's  loves  for  sea-shells, 
caves,  drum  music,  and  chimneysweeps. 

It  was  a  contraption,  as  Uncle  Remus  would  have 
said,  of  cardboard.  It  was  a  little  like  a  stereoscope, 
but  more  like  those  fascinating  Easter  eggs  made  of 
glittering  sugar  that  one  licked  on  the  sly,  in  which 
small  paper  shepherds,  shepherdesses,  sheep  and  angels 
stood  about  on  arsenic-green  grass. 

In  a  word,  it  was  a  thing  that  unfolded  like  a  con- 
certina and  in  which,  when  one  peeped  through  a  variety 
of  little  eyeholes,  one  perceived  in  all  its  wicked  glory 
the  gallery  of  the  Palais  Royal.  Infinitesimal  ladies 
and  gentlemen  strutted  in  the  shady  arcades ;  a  poodle 
sat  up  and  begged ;  soldiers  marched. 

It  was  one  of  those  enchanting  toys  to  be  enjoyed 
only  by  grown-ups,  and  Amy  Dorset  had  just  arrived 
in  her  tardy  maturity  at  the  age  of  appreciation  of  it. 

It  amused  her  for  hours,  and  she  even  showed  it  to 
Clementine. 

"N'est  ce  pas,  Clementine,  c'est  joli?" 

"Mais  oui,  madame — un  petit  machin  ravissant 

Amy  at  that  moment  made  the  adorable  discovery 
that  one's  own  society  is  better  than  the  society  of  the 
average  other  person.  Clementine  was  bored,  so  Clemen- 

328 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

tine  bored  her,  and  when  the  door  closed  behind  the 
excellent  woman,  Amy  gave  a  little  shudder  of  pleasure 
in  the  rain  and  the  fog  outside,  the  fire  and  the  Palais 
Royal  inside. 

It  was  during  these  rainy  days,  too,  that  she  faced 
the  fact  that  she  did  not  really  like  books.  "I  think," 
she  said  to  the  Rector  the  first  time  she  saw  him  after 
his  illness,  "that  my  favorite  author  is  really ." 

Old  Bullace  chuckled.  "And  a  very  good  author," 
he  commended. 

Amy  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  suppose,"  she  amended 
candidly,  "that  she  really  is  a  very  good  author — 
everyone  says  she's  awful — but — well,  I  enjoy  her,  Mr. 
Bullace." 

"Then  read  her." 

It  seemed  so  simple  to  him  that  it  suddenly  seemed 
simple  to  Amy. 

"I  suppose,"  she  returned,  "that  I  have  a  right  to 
admire  her,  haven't  I?" 

The  Rector  no  longer  smiled.  His  face,  white  with 
the  pallor  of  the  very  old  who  are  ill,  was  grave. 

"Any  honest  admiration,  for  no  matter  how  humble 
an  object,"  he  answered,  "is  respectable,  whereas  a 
feigned  admiration  even  for  St.  Paul  or  Shakespeare  is 
— contemptible." 

Then  he  asked  for  his  beef- juice  and  changed  the 
subject. 

329 


LXV 

Sept.  9,  Maiden  Aqualate. 
MY  DEAR  AMY, 

I've  heard  from  Lawrence,  and  it  is  by  her  advice  that 
I  again  write  to  you.  I  was  sorry  to  read  of  the  death 
of  Hood's  mother.  I  believe  that  he  was  a  most  devoted 
son. 

And  it  is  my  earnest  hope  that  he  may  prove  to  be  as  good 
a  husband. 

I  have  written  asking  him  to  come  to  see  me,  and  on 
Wednesday  we  meet  at  875.  I've  just  heard  from  him. 

I  will  do  whatever  seems  best  for  your  happiness. 

His  letter  is  very  nice — it  has  impressed  me,  and  I  will 
do  my  best  to  help  the  good  in  him.  I  have  never  liked  him, 
but  I  must  confess  that  I  believe  now  that  he  really  loves 
you. 

If,  as  I  think  will  be  the  case,  he  convinces  me  of  the 
durability  of  both  your  feelings,  I  shall,  to  further  the 
speed  of  the  inevitable  unpleasant  proceedings,  go  abroad 
at  once — to  Paris. 

Burnaby  will  then  tell  you  what  to  do. 

I  mean  to  settle  seven  thousand  pounds  a  year  on  you 
and  any  possible  children  of  yours. 

I  will  write  you  when  I  have  seen  Hood. 

You  could  not,  I  think,  do  better  than  to  stay  at  Bird's 
Fountain  until  you  have  filed  your  petition. 

And  now,  my  poor  little  Amy,  good-bye.     I  have  been  a 

330 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

miserable  failure  as  a  husband,  but  I  did  love  you  once.     I 
was,  no  doubt,  too  old  for  you,  and  too  dull. 

If  our  baby  had  lived  things  might  have  been  different. 
Do  you  ever  remember  her? 

God  bless  you  and  make  you  happy. 

CI.OUDESLEY  DORSET. 


LXVI 

IT  had  been  a  blazing  hot  day,  and  the  air  was  heavy 
and  exhausted.  . 

Bayswater  was  at  its  worst. 

In  the  shabby  street  where  Miss  Croxley  lived,  all  the 
curtains  looked  grimier  than  usual,  the  doorsteps  more 
neglected,  and  in  the  hot  wind  dust  blew  about,  and 
scraps  of  paper. 

Miss  Croxley  came  wearily  up  the  street.  Her  large 
feet  ached,  and  her  eyes  and  temper  were  full  of  dust. 

In  a  paper  bag  she  had  some  buns,  and  she  loathed 
buns. 

As  she  took  her  latchkey  from  her  bag  a  round-eyed 
telegraph  boy  ran  up  the  steps.  "Croxley?" 

"Yes.    Wait  a  minute  till  I  see " 

Her  flagging  face  brightened  as  she  read  the  tele- 
gram, and  she  smiled  at  the  boy. 

"No  answer,  thanks." 

Then  she  went  to  the  dairy  round  the  corner  and 
called  up  a  telephone  number. 

"Hullo,  is— Oh,  it's  you!" 

"Yes.    Did  you  get  my  wire?" 
332 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"I  did.  And  I'll  come  with  pleasure.  How — how  are 
you?" 

After  a  moment's  further  talk  she  went  back  to  her 
rooms.  The  dust  no  longer  blew  into  her  eyes,  and  the 
red-haired  cornetist,  an  unlovely  phenomenon  whom  she 
usually  detested,  was  enriched  by  her  to  the  extent  of 
a  penny. 

She  was  to  dine  with  Dorset. 

They  dined  at  a  quiet  restaurant  near  an  open  win- 
dow, and  the  dinner  was  excellent. 

Dorset  looked  pale,  and  the  deep  lines  in  his  cheeks 
were  more  definitely  lines  and  not  dimples  than  she  had 
ever  seen  them. 

However,  he  said  nothing  of  any  importance  until  the 
dinner  was  nearly  over,  and  they  were  eating  fruit. 

"I've  seen  him,  Lawrence,"  he  began  quietly. 

"Oh !" 

"Yes.    He  came  to  875." 

"Did  he  suggest  it,  Clow — or  you?" 

"I — I  wrote  him  just  before  his  mother  died,  and  had 
his  letter  the  other  day." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  Lawrence  Croxley's  eloquent 
eyes  fixed  on  Dorset's  face.  "Well?" 

"I  think  we've  both  been  too  hard  on  him,  my  dear. 
I  can  see  nothing  fine  in  him,  but  his  attitude  regarding 

Amy  was  perfect " 

333 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Oh,  yes,  his  attitude  would  be  perfect.  His  manner 
is  magnificent!" 

"I  don't  mean  his  manner.  You  see,  I  asked  him 
outright  whether  he  wished  to  marry  her.  For  some 
reason  I've  rather  doubted  it." 

"So  have  I." 

"And  we  were  wrong.  He  was  quite  frank  with  me 
— told  me  that  at  first  he  had  not  thought  of  marriage 
— it  never  occurred  to  him,  but  that,  of  late,  the  hope 
had  been  growing  stronger  and  stronger.  He  assured 
me  that  he  really  loves  her,  and  that  he  will  do  his  best 
to  make  her  happy." 

Lawrence  laughed  sharply.  "His  mother  is  only  just 
dead — he's  being  a  good  boy.  However,  she  is  bent  on 
having  him,  so  we  can  only  hope  that  his  virtue  will 
last!" 

Dorset  nodded.  "He  certainly  means  it  to,  now. 
Lawrence — I  am  sorry  she  and  you  quarreled.  Poor 
little  soul,  she  is  going  to  need  her  friends." 

"When  she  needs  me  she'll  know  where  to  find  me." 
Her  long  mouth  was  a  little  grim  as  she  spoke. 

Then  she  waited,  wondering  what  he  would  say  next. 
Since  the  evening  that  now  seemed  centuries  ago,  when 
he  had  suggested  their  marrying,  he  had  made  no  ref- 
erence to  the  matter.  Sometimes  she  almost  won- 
dered if  she  had  dreamt  it  or  even  misunderstood 
him. 

334 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

And  now,  her  thin  hands  crossed  under  her  chin,  she 
waited. 

"I  met  a  man  last  week  who  knows  him,"  he  went  on, 
thoughtfully,  "and  he  liked  him  immensely.  A  first-rate 
sportsman,  a  good  officer,  a  hater  of  gossip — all  sorts 
of  good  things  he  said  about  him,  but — I  gathered 
that  he  is  most  untrustworthy  where  women  are  con- 
cerned." 

She  nodded.    "You  mean  he  doesn't  really  love  them !" 

"No!  He  seems  to  love  'em  all — and  that  is  a 
deucedly  complicating  gift.  However,  as  I  told  you, 
I  almost  liked  the  fellow  today." 

"You're  a  goose,  Clow !  A  man  takes  your  wife  away 
from  you  and  you  endow  him  with  money  and — like 
him!" 

The  little  restaurant  was  nearly  empty  now,  and  it 
was  much  cooler. 

After  a  while  Dorset  answered  her. 

"He  didn't  take  my  wife  away  from  me,  Lawrence," 
he  said  slowly.  "She — had  gone  away  from  me — and  I 
from  her — long  before  he  came  along.  I  was  the  last 
man  on  earth  for  poor  little  Amy.  Heavens,  how  I 
must  have  bored  her." 

In  its  perfect  sincerity  and  lack  of  all  demand  for 
sympathy,  the  speech  was  an  amazing  one.  It  silenced 
his  companion. 

"This  chap — Hood — talks  her  language,  they  like  the 
335 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

same   things,   the   same  people.      God   bless   her,"   he 
ended,  "I  do  hope  she'll  be  happy." 

"So  do  I,  Clow.  But — she's  a  little  changed  of  late. 
That  day  she  had  washed  her  face  in  the  fountain — all 
the  eyebrow  stuff  and  the  powder,  and — she  looked 
different,  somehow.  I  think  she  would  have  reminded 
you  of  her  as  she  was  years  ago,  before  she — before — 
you,  know." 

He  nodded.  "Yes.  Why,  Lawrence,  do  you  know 
that  even  now  Amy  is  as  simple  as  a  child  ?  I  wish  you 
could  have  heard  her  that  night  when  she  told  me  about 
Hood." 

"She's  a  baby." 

Lawrence  Croxley  was  longing  for  a  personal  note  in 
their  talk;  she  had  reached  the  point,  feeling  that  for 
the  moment  she  had  had  enough  of  Amy,  but  her  face 
softened  and  her  mouth  curved  uncontrollably  at  the 
thought  of  Amy  in  her  sweet  phase.  "O  Clow,"  she 
added  generously,  "if  he  isn't  good  to  her  what  shall  we 
do  to  him?" 

Dorset  smiled  at  her.  "Tar  and  feather  him,  you 
fierce  woman.  Well,  Lawrence,  when  she  is  safely  mar- 
ried will  you  marry  me?" 

She  bent  her  head  low  over  the  plate  as  if  she  had 
discovered  a  pearl  under  the  pear-peeling.  Her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears  and  she  feared  that  he  would  see. 

"Why  on  earth,"  she  said  with  an  uneven  laugh,  "do 
336 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

you  want  to  marry  me?  I'm  as  old  as  Methuselah  and 
as  ugly  as  sin,  and  as  irritable  and  short-tempered  as 
a  nervous  horse " 

"Then  I  like  age  and  ugliness  and  bad  temper.  Will 
you,  my  dear?" 

She  raised  her  head.  "Of  course  I  will,  Clow."  And 
at  that  minute  something  happened  of  which  she  was 
to  be  ashamed  to  the  end  of  her  days.  It  so  happened 
that,  from  where  he  sat,  Dorset  could  not  see  the  door 
of  the  restaurant,  or  the  curtained  stairway  leading  to 
the  upper  room. 

And  as  she  accepted  Dorset's  offer  of  marriage,  an 
offer  made  possible,  she  knew,  only  by  the  comparative 
good  behavior  of  Archie  Hood,  Archie  Hood  came  in 
with  a  rather  well-known  lady  of  the  half-world. 

When  he  saw  Miss  Croxley  he  turned  perfectly  white. 
Then,  into  his  handsome  face  he  threw  such  an  expres- 
sion of  concentrated  pleading  that  she  gave  way  to  it. 
She  hated  him,  but — their  interests  were  identical. 

She  let  him  go  his  way  upstairs  unchallenged,  and — 
she  was  engaged  to  Cloudesley  Dorset. 


LXVH 

DEAR  Miss  CROXLEY, 

May  I  thank  you?  And  will  you  allow  me  to  explain? 
I  have  known  that  lady  for  many  years.  A  friend  of  mine 
who  is  now  dead,  really  loved  her.  She  and  I  have  always 
been  friends,  and  last  night  she  telephoned  me  and  asked 
me  to  dine  with  her.  She  is  in  trouble  and  needed  a  friend. 

You  may  not  know  that  I  am  far  more  grieved  and  un- 
happy over  my  mother's  death  than  many  a  better  man 
might  be.  I  was  not  amusing  myself  last  night.  All  this 
on  my  word  of  honor.  Dorset  has  been  splendid  with  me, 
and  I  am  going  to  do  my  best  to  make  Amy  happy. 

Once  more,  thanks  for  doing  what  you  did  last  night. 

Yours  sincerely, 

A.  HOOD. 


LXVIII 

MR.  BULLACE,  I  am  very  wicked." 
"Are  you,  my  dear?" 
"Yes.    I — I  am  a  dog  in  the  manger." 

The  old  man  smiled  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  head. 
"A  nasty  animal,  that." 

"Yes.     But  I  am." 

The  rain  beat  hard  on  the  windows,  and  a  big  fire 
roared  in  the  fireplace.  The  clock  in  the  church  tower 
had  struck  ten,  and  the  night  was  black. 

Amy  sat  on  a  creepie  by  the  Rector — they  had  sent 
Jargonelle  to  bed. 

"Why  are  you  a  dog  in  the  manger,  dear?" 

Amy  looked  up,  heedless  of  red  eyes  and  swollen  nose. 

"You  don't  know  me "  she  began  with  a  recru- 
descence of  tragedy  in  her  voice. 

The  old  man  laughed. 

"Don't  I  ?  The  pretty  wife,  the  adoring  lover  and — 
the  neglectful  husband.  That  group,  at  least,  is  not 
new,  my  dear !" 

"Cloudesley,"  she  said  with  dignity,  "is  not  neglect- 
ful." 

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BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Oh,  isn't  he?" 

"No.     O  Rector,  dear  Rector,  read  his  letter." 
All  crumpled  and  warm,  she  squeezed  it  into  his  hand. 
Then  she  waited  while  he  read  it. 

"Well?" 

And  with  the  guile  of  the  serpent  he  answered  her. 

"A  very  decent  letter — poor  man." 

She  blazed.     "Why  'poor  man'?" 

And  who  knows  what  inward  chuckle  stirred  the  Rec- 
tor's aged  frame  as  he  held  his  huge,  transparent  hands 
to  the  fire. 

"I  call  him  a  poor  man  because  he  has  not  had — the 
wits — to  keep  you.  And  now,  my  child,  tell  me  about — 
the  other  man.  My  one,  to  whom  I  lied." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Bullace!" 

"Yes.  I  lied  to  him.  Yes — and  very  well.  I  am," 
he  added,  daringly,  with  pride,  "a  good  liar." 

"Mr.  Bullace!" 

She  caught  his  hand  and  held  it  in  hers,  on  which  the 
diamonds  blazed. 

"Rector — dear — I  am  not  being  bad  to  him,  you 
know." 

"Of  course  not.  I  quite  see  that  he  never  deserved 
you " 

A  long  pause  followed  and  then  she  returned  bravely, 

"It  isn't  that.    He  was  always  awfully  good " 

340 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"I  see.  But  tell  me  about  the  one  I  saw.  He  is  a 
very  beautiful  man." 

Amy  sighed.  "Yes.  Isn't  he?  And — he — he  does 
love  me.  Really,  I  mean." 

"I  know.    And  he  is,  of  course,  a  really  good  man." 

"Y-yes.  Or,  no "  She  sat  up,  and,  whirling 

round,  faced  him. 

"Of  course  I  love  Archie.  He  is — wonderful.  But 
I  don't  think  he  is  so  very  good.  Although  I  love  him 
and  shall,  of  course,  be  perfectly  happy  with  him,  I  must 
tell  you  that  I  don't  think  he  is  so  good — from  your 
point  of  view — as  Clow." 

"'Clow'?" 

"Cloudesley — my  husband." 

The  clock  struck  and  a  door  somewhere  at  the  back 
of  the  Rectory  slammed.  The  house  was  being  closed 
for  the  night. 

The  old  man  was  very  tired ;  his  head  stirred  wearily 
against  the  back  of  his  chair. 

"Well,  my  pet,  if  your  husband  is  the  better  man,  why 
not — stick  to  him?" 

Her  light  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "Oh,"  she  said,  care- 
lessly, "Archie  is  quite  good  enough  for  me." 

Then  she  rose  and  put  on  her  cloak. 

"Julia  is  going  to  walk  back  with  me.  I  will  go  now. 
Good  night,  dear  Mr.  Bullace." 

He  kissed  her.  "Good  night,  my  love — but  before 
341 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

you  go,  do  tell  me  why  you  are  a  dog  in  the  manger." 

She  hesitated,  folding  the  letter  and  putting  it  into 
her  bag.  "Did  you  ever  want  to  get  rid  of — something 
— and  then  not  want  anyone  else  to  have  it?" 

The  old  man  laughed.     "Often." 

With  an  effort  he  rose,  a  grotesque  figure  in  his  purple 
dressing-gown. 

"Amy — I  am  very  glad  you  are  going  to  be  happy 
with  your  Archie.  But — will  your  husband  be  happy 
too?" 

She  drew  herself  up.  "Oh,  yes.  I  have  tried  to  tell 
you  before,  but — it  was  difficult,  somehow.  Clow  will 
be  far  happier  without  me." 

"Why?" 

They  had  reached  the  door,  and  could  hear,  on  the 
gravel,  the  creaking  footsteps  of  Mrs.  Crump,  the  light 
of  whose  lantern  streamed  across  the  wet  garden. 

The  rain  came  down  in  torrents,  and  the  wind  had 
risen.  "What  a  night!  Oh,  well — you  see — my  hus- 
band doesn't — love  me,  either,  Mr.  Bullace.  And — he 
will,  I  believe,  marry  a  very  dear  friend  of  ours — a 
Miss  Croxley." 

"Oh?" 

"Yes.  (I'm  coming,  Mrs.  Crump.)  She  is  nearly  as 
old  as  he,  and — she  is  very  fond  of  him " 

The  Rector  gazed  at  her  thoughtfully  for  a  moment. 
"I  see.  Then  he,  too,  cares  for  someone  else?" 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Crump  blew  her  nose  loudly  and  unfurled  her 
umbrella.  Amy  held  out  her  hand. 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Bullace." 

"Good  night,  my  dear.  I — I  am  very  glad  about 
your  husband." 

"Thank  you ;  so  am  I.    Good  night." 

"Good  night.  One  thing  I  should  like  you  to  do,  my 
love.  I  am  a  sentimental  old  fellow  in  purple  flannel^ 
but  I  should  like  you  to  do  me  one  favor." 

"All  right,"  she  answered  firmly,  "I  will." 

"Your  little  girl,  Anne  Rose.  Where  did  you  bury 
her  little  body?" 

"At  Ambles." 

"That  is  only  two  hours  from  here,  across  country. 
The  trains  are  not  too  bad.  Well,  dear — you  have 
promised — I  want  you,  before  you  marry  Captain  Hood, 
to  go  and  say  one  prayer  at  her  grave,  will  you?" 

Amy  started.  "How  odd  that  you  should  ask  me 
that  today!" 

"Why  odd?" 

"Because  the  day  after  tomorrow,  it  will  be  fifteen 
years  since  she  died." 

"Very  well,  then,  go  and  say  good-bye  to  her  grave 
before  you  give  up  all  right  to  it." 

"Before  I  give  up  all  right " 

"Yes.  When  you  are  married  to  the  other  man  you 
343 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

will,  of  course,  have  no  further  right  to  it.  Your  baby 
was  his  child — Dorset's — as  well  as  yours " 

After  a  pause  she  gave  a  shrill  laugh. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  "I'll  go.  It's  a  mad  idea,  but 
because  it's  you  who  asks  me,  I'll  go — good  night." 


LXIX 

AMBLES  is  a  small  town  with  one  long,  cobbled 
street  and  a  tiny  square. 

It  was  four  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Dorset  got 
out  of  the  train  at  the  little  station,  and  it  was  rain- 
ing. 

To  the  solitary  flyman  she  waved  an  impatient,  deny- 
ing hand. 

She  was  desperately  tired,  but  she  would  walk. 

Up  the  long  street  she  plodded  under  an  umbrella 
belonging  to  Mrs.  Damson. 

She  was  amazed  to  find  that  she  remembered  the  place 
so  well;  Borden,  the  grocer — his  sign  was  the  same — 
and  the  gilded  crosskeys  of  the  old  inn  still  swung  with 
a  creak  over  the  door. 

A  drunken  man  lurched  by,  and  she  recollected  her 
old  fear  of  the  champion  village  drunkard  of  sixteen 
years  ago. 

The  clock  struck  one,  and  its  voice  held  the  old, 
familiar  crack. 

The  very  rain  seemed  the  same. 

Up  the  steep  street  she  toiled,  and  then  a  light  burst 
345 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

oat  from  the  big  Georgian  windows  across  the  way,  and 
the  little  pilgrim  came  to  a  halt. 

There  it  was,  the  old  house  to  which  she  had  been 
brought  as  a  bride.  In  the  rainy  dusk  it  looked  older 
and  dingier,  yet  very  much  the  same,  and  the  trees  hung 
their  wet  branches  over  the  wall  in  quite  the  old  way. 

Through  the  unshaded  windows  the  sitting-room  was 
plainly  visible.  A  fire  burnt  on  the  hearth  at  which, 
so  long  ago,  she  had  waited  for  her  husband. 

A  woman  sat  there  now,  a  child  by  her  side.  And 
then,  with  a  clatter  of  eager  feet,  a  man  came  up  the 
street  and  mounted  the  steps. 

The  child  was  now  alone  by  the  fire. 

A  moment  later  they  were  all  there;  the  father,  the 
mother,  and  the  bonny  fat  baby. 

Amy  stood  in  the  rain,  breathless,  watching.  And 
when  the  happy-faced  wife  drew  down  the  blinds  the 
poor  little  watcher  felt  as  if  she  had  been  struck  in  the 
face. 

Two  men  passed  her,  talking  hard;  a  cart  passed; 
the  rain  came  down  harder;  she  smelt  the  brewery;  it 
was  too  dark  to  see.  She  hated  it  all.  Suddenly  she 
was  bitterly  unhappy. 

"Oh,  why  did  I  come,  why  did  I  come?  It  was  cruel 
of  the  Rector!" 

She  felt  an  outcast,  a  pariah,  the  loneliest  of  ill- 
treated  women. 

346 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

She  would  not  go  to  the  churchyard.  The  Rector 
was  a  cruel  old  man  to  ask  her  to.  She  would  go  to  the 
Cross  Keys  and  get  a  motor — surely  they  would  have 
a  motor! — and  go  straight  to  Archie.  She  wanted 
Archie.  The  old  life  was  over  and  done  with.  It  was 
Archie  she  loved,  it  was  he  whom  she  missed. 

Then  she  went  on  to  the  church. 

The  gravel  was  very  wet,  but  the  grass,  as  she  struck 
off  towards  the  tower,  was  wetter.  Her  feet  sank  in, 
and  came  out  with  a  sucking  noise. 

With  a  physical  twinge  of  horror  she  realized  that 
her  baby  had  lain  there  for  fifteen  years.  She  hated 
the  Rector. 

Clutching  the  flowers  she  had  brought,  she  plodded 
on,  and  in  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  reached  the  corner 
where  her  husband  had  cried — that  only  time — on  the 
day  of  the  child's  funeral. 

And  there,  at  the  grave,  a  bunch  of  white  roses  in 
his  hand,  stood  her  husband. 

"You  must  be  patient  with  me,  Amy,  dear,"  he  said, 
ten  minutes  later;  "I  am  a  dull  dog." 

"You  must  be  patient  with  me,  Clow,  for  I  am  a  fool," 

He  kissed  her.  "Your  poor,  sweet  little  feet  will  be 
so  wet.  May  I  dry  them  for  you  at  the  inn?" 

She  gave  a  little  gasp.     "O  Clow." 

At  last,  after  a  moment's  silence,  the  child's  grave 
347 


BIRD'S  FOUNTAIN 

between  them,  they  turned  to  leave  the  quiet  place. 
Hood's  name  had  not  been  mentioned. 

"Clow,  it  is  very  wonderful  that  you  should  have 
thought  of  coming  here  today,  too." 

Cloudesley  Dorset  picked  his  little  wife  up  in  his  arms, 
and,  as  he  did  so,  a  bit  of  paper  in  an  orange-colored 
envelope  crackled  in  his  breast  pocket. 

"I  didn't,  dearest,"  he  said.  "I  have  often  been  here 
before  without  telling  you,  but — this  time  it  was — not 
chance." 

She  laid  her  cheek  to  his.  "I  don't  understand,"  she 
said,  "for  nobody  knew  except  the  Rector,  but — noth- 
ing matters  now." 


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